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THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


BEFORE THE WIND 

Boston Transcript: “Delicate satire 
and humor make the chronicle of 
the double romance deliciously 
amusing, and interwoven with it is 
a detective story of grateful in- 
genuity.” 

New York Times' “It is a romance, 
a detective story, a novel that is rich 
in lightness and amusement. It is 
a whimsical and most readable tale.” 

Cloth, $1.50 net 


E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY, 
NEW YORK 


THE MAN WJTH 
THE LAMP 


BY 

JANET LAING 

„ >1 

AUTHOR OF “BEFORE THE WIND” 



NEW YORK 

E. P. DUTTON y COMPANY 

68 1 FIFTH AVENUE 

(V|a^ 2j 


Copyright, 1919, 

BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 



All Rights Reserved 



1 

• » * 


JUl 28 1919 


✓ 


Printed in the United States of America 

©CI.A529374 r 

Iteoarrifotl 


THE TRUE, THE BEAUTIFUL, THE GOOD 
AMONG THE ACCURSED 
THIS BOOK 
IS DEDICATED 












X 




s 



























♦ 


I 






* 
















































CONTENTS 


PROLOGUE 

PAGE 

IN WHICH, NEAR A GREAT SEA-GATE, ONE FINE AFTERNOON, 

TWO WAYS PART I 


CHAPTER I 

IN WHICH A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER COME FOR THE FIRST 
TIME FACE TO FACE, WITH THE RESULT THAT A COURT- 
MARTIAL, NOWHERE ELSE RECORDED, IS HELD ... 13 

CHAPTER II 

IN WHICH AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF SOME THINGS THAT 
HAPPENED IN RATHNESS, ONE DARK NIGHT IN THE 
OCTOBER OF NINETEEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN . . 33 

CHAPTER III 

IN WHICH SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE TRANSIT OF 
MRS. ABERCROMBIE IN THE COMPANY OF AN ENCHANTER, 

AND OF WHAT BEFEL THEM ON THEIR WAY TO WOOD 
END 58 


CHAPTER IV 

IN WHICH MRS. ABERCROMBIE INADVERTENTLY PLAYS THE 
PART OF AN INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE, AND 
MR. JAMES CARRUTHERS BELIEVES HIMSELF TO BE THE 
VICTIM OF HALLUCINATION 85 


Vll 


CONTENTS 


Vlll 


CHAPTER V 

IN WHICH SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OE WHAT TOOK PLACE 
IN MR. CARRUTHERS’S END AETER THE DOOR WAS 
LOCKED 


CHAPTER VI 

IN WHICH MRS. ABERCROMBIE IN THE ACT OF SETTLING 
DOWN RECEIVES A SHOCK FROM AN UNEXPECTED 
QUARTER 


CHAPTER VII 

WHICH BEGINS WITH AN INTERVIEW IN A SITTING-ROOM 
AND ENDS WITH ANOTHER IN THE COURTYARD OF A 
PALACE 


CHAPTER VIII 

IN WHICH AMONGST OTHER THINGS SOME ACCOUNT IS 
GIVEN OF WHAT HAPPENED ON THE FIRST DAY ON 
THE KNEES OF THE GODS 

CPIAPTER IX 

IN WHICH THE FUGUE DEMON TAKES AN EIGHT HOURS 7 
REST, AND MRS. ABERCROMBIE RETURNS THE CALL 
OF MR. CARRUTHERS 

CHAPTER X 

IN WHICH MR. CARRUTHERS, BEING PREVENTED FROM CON- 
CENTRATING IT UPON THE RUINS OF KNOSSOS, TURNS 
HIS ATTENTION TO THE DOUBLE-BARRING AND COM- 
PLETE SECURING OF OTHER PALACE GATES .... 

CHAPTER XI 

IN WHICH SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF ANOTHER NOCTURNE, 
AND MRS. BINNIE FINDS IT NECESSARY TO INTERVIEW 
THE CHIEF SPECIAL CONSTABLE 


PAGB 

103 


125 


I48 


l66 


183 


199 


215 


CONTENTS 


IX 


CHAPTER XII 

IN WHICH MR. DUNWIDDIE HAVING PLACED HIS AFFAIRS 
UPON A SATISFACTORY BASIS CONCENTRATES HIS 
ATTENTION UPON THE PUBLIC WEAL, AND THE FUGUE 
DEMON KEEPS AT BAY OTHER UNSEEN FORCES AT THE 
DOVE-COTE 


CHAPTER XIII 

IN WHICH GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT AND ANDY PRAYS 
FOR HER OWN SOUL 

CHAPTER XIV 

IN WHICH, AMONGST OTHER THINGS, SOME ACCOUNT IS 
GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN .... 

CHAPTER XV 

IN WHICH MRS. ABERCROMBIE FINDS HERSELF ABSOLUTELY 
UP AGAINST IT 


PAGE 

23 S 

251 

268 

287 

311 


POSTSCRIPTS 



THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


9 


THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


PROLOGUE 

IN WHICH, NEAR A GREAT SEA-GATE, ONE FINE AFTERNOON, 
TWO WAYS PART 

Amid a blaze of flowering gorse in sunshine, towards the eve- 
ning of a glorious day in the May of 1914, two men sat in a 
grassy nook, on a headland about five miles from Rathness, 
looking out upon the North Sea. 

Far down below them the tide was coming in, and they 
could hear the swish of the waves as they crept up among 
the boulders. Larks were singing over the fields above 
them; bees were humming all around them. They them- 
selves, however, had not uttered one word, either good or 
bad, for about an hour and a half. 

The elder of the two was already in his forties and looked 
older than he need have done because of the wear and tear 
to which his mind had ever subjected his bodily frame, and 
shabbier than was necessary because of his disregard for all 
the conventions of this earth. He sat, folded up, his chin on 
his knees, his hands clasping his legs, gazing out over the 
water. His steel-blue eyes were weary and strained, his 
clean-shaven face was thin and lined. But there was triumph 
and exultation in his expression as he stared fixedly and un- 
seeingly at the far distance. 

The fair-haired grey-eyed boy at his side was only half his 
age and looked even younger. In contrast to his companion 
he was well-dressed, though, at the moment, his tweed gar- 
ments showed signs of having had what his friend called a 

1 


2 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

day with Nature. He had forced his way through bramble- 
brakes, slipped on mud, waded knee-deep through seaweed, 
and scaled crags to get to this present eyrie. The state he 
was in, however, troubled him not at all, for, during the 
past six months, he had become used to such adventures. 

He was very good to look at, lean, lithe, and clean-limbed, 
yet with a soupgon of what some call the artistic about him. 
Jhis manifested itself not in his clothes, not in his hair, but, 
as though in spite of him, in the fine lines of his head and 
face, and more especially in his slim strong hands, for he 
had been bom and bred a pianist. 

The autumn before, James Carruthers, the elder man, 
had been travelling through Europe in a very bad temper. 
A pupil was accompanying him, and James who, as a rule, 
succeeded in handing back his charges more interested in 
things at large than he had received them, was, to his intense 
disgust, totally failing in this instance. Nothing in Europe 
or in James seemed to appeal to the youth in hand. Nothing 
in him appealed to James. Anything, therefore, being wel- 
come, which offered a chance of escape from a tete-a-tete 
which had become irksome, James gladly accepted an invita- 
tion, extended to himself as well as his pupil, to visit a Baron 
Von Lauenhain, at his Schloss, in the Franconian Forest. 
Here he had met Martin Ascher, the orphan nephew of the 
host, who had, nevertheless, been educated in England, until, 
some years before, at his urgent request, he had been sent to 
Berlin to study music. From thence he had just returned 
on the verge of a nervous break-down from overworking, 
and hearing this, James, who was an enthusiastic music- 
lover, as well as an incorrigible over- worker, was immediately 
attracted. 

That evening, when Martin played, he completed a con- 
quest. Orpheus-like he charmed away the tutor’s grim and 
bearish humour, and next day when they walked and talked 
together in the forest, James was even more charmed. Mar- 
tin’s brilliant gift, his quick perceptiveness, his rare sim- 
plicity, won first the keen interest of his new friend and then 


IN WHICH TWO WAYS PART g 

his difficult affection. Martin, for his part, soon realised 
that never before had he met anyone quite like James, and 
he began to discuss freely with him any and every kind of 
subject. 

James, as was his wont, responded by introducing him to 
new vistas of thought, new planes, new worlds, and when at 
last, as intimacy ripened, he came to speak of his own 
visions, Martin was altogether fascinated and absorbed. 

The two became inseparable. The pupil, utterly neglected, 
had the time of his life. He went shooting with the baron, 
and learned not a word of German. 

“Which doesn’t matter one bit,” James remarked to Mar- 
tin. “The fewer languages a fool like that knows, the bet- 
ter.” 

In spite of this reprehensible conduct of James’s, how- 
ever, the baron, at the close of their visit, asked him to take 
Martin back with him. 

“I want him to brush up his English,” he explained, him- 
self speaking faultless English, “and to see something of your 

beautiful Scotland. And ” he added aside, “to get his 

nerves into order again, for he is the image of his mother 
who died of her nerves — poor thing.” 

Martin, desperately anxious to return to Berlin, consented 
nevertheless willingly enough to pass his enforced holiday 
with this unusual, not to say amazing tutor. 

“Never fear, my boy,” James had said to him privately, 
reading in his eyes the misery of baulked desire, “I have an 
excellent piano, and you shall practise day and night if you 
like, the more the better, so far as I am concerned.” 

The brushing-up of the language he neglected altogether 
for the very good reason that it was not required. Martin 
had been to Rugby and Cambridge and, save for a more 
lingering and distinct pronunciation of certain consonants, 
so slight as to be hardly perceptible, he spoke English as 
well as his tutor. 

James therefore concentrated at once upon the nervous 
malady. 


$ THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“He is as strong as a horse, physically,” he soliloquised, 
when he had made his observations. “All he wants is to 
escape from himself — from what he thinks is himself — • 
nerves included.” 

Then, in his own peculiar manner, he proceeded to show 
his charge Scotland. Martin saw and delighted in the 
dilapidated old house where James lived. He saw Rathness. 
He saw the coast-line of low cliffs and crumbling rocks and 
green slopes, that sweeps round from the bay of the little 
grey town to the mouth of the river-avenue that leads to 
the gates of Edinburgh. He saw battleships from the naval 
base at Rosyth pass by like ghosts in the distance, bent, 
night and day, never ceasing, never resting, upon their task 
of guarding the heart of Scotland. 

An in-lander from the centre of a continent, ships and 
boats had always fascinated him. Soon he became hand 
in glove with the fishermen. Often he would be with them 
whole days and nights, and in one cottage in particular — * 
Old Sandy’s cottage among the dunes, and so near the waves 
that it seemed to be ever full of the stir and whisper of them, 
he had been at home at all times. He had been dubbed the 
mate of the old yawl, the “Petronella,” which sometimes, 
manned by the two sons Sandy and Willie, and David Craig, 
the son-in-law of the house, sailed out past the Isle of May, 
which, like some giant dreadnought ever at anchor, dim by 
day and flashing by night, lay watching the entrance to the 
great estuary. They would fare forth then into the open sea, 
which, jesting, he had been wont to say must belong to him, 
since it was called the German Ocean. O’ nights too he would 
tell them about the Lauenhain, would talk German to them, 
teach them words, and sing them songs — the Erl King or 
the Lorelei. . . . Thus, carrying out James’s programme, 
he came gradually out of himself, though James took little 
part in the performance. At times indeed he clearly in- 
dicated that he would prefer to be left in solitude. At other 
times, however, he would require his charge to accompany 
him in what he called expeditions into the unseen. 


IN WHICH TWO WAYS PART 5 

They had had weird experiences together, and strange 
nights of wandering, for times and seasons were as naught to 
James. Often they had seen the sun rjse over the far moun- 
tains, many a time watched the moon sink into the sea. . . . 

But now a sadness of farewell was upon Ascher, for he 
had said good-bye to the cottage among the dunes. 

“No — you can’t go back that way,” his guide had said 
to him that morning. “You must say good-bye now, while 
I go forward and wait for you on the rocks, because to-night 
there will be no time. I want you to play to me all this 
last night.” 

It was at the dawning that he had seen his fisher-folk for 
the last time — the old mother bent over a great fire of drift- 
wood, busy cooking breakfast for her two stalwart sons, her 
weather-beaten face, beautiful with kindness and content- 
ment, lighting up as ever at his coming — Sandy and Willie 
hailing him with enthusiasm, and disappointed that he was 
not coming with them in the boat — David Craig’s wife, Jess 
— gallant little quick-tempered woman — helping her mother 
to lay the table and ordering everybody about — Old Sandy, 
too old to do aught but beam upon everybody, and give 
advice that was sometimes listened to and sometimes not. 

. . . How they had all crowded round him, shaken him by 
the hand, wished him a good journey, and some day a safe 
return to them ! ... He saw them all again and heard their 
hearty voices as his gaze rested mournfully where the blue 
sky met the water. 

“Of what are you thinking?” said his companion sud- 
denly. 

He looked round and found the tired eyes resting keenly 
yet kindly upon him. 

“Of going away,” he replied. “Of parting.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“And it makes you sad,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“It makes me sad,” replied Martin. 

“It oughtn’t to,” said James. “If you were a right minded 
youth you would be thankful to be getting away from me. 


6 


THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


For — I freely confess it, Ascher — I have been an execrable 
tutor to you. I have made you talk to me for my amuse- 
ment instead of teaching you. I have made you play to me 
for my pleasure instead of making you read. I have never 
even read to you or caused you to read the daily papers. I 
ask your forgiveness.” 

“Forgiveness!” cried Martin. “Forgiveness, sir, for hav- 
ing given me what has been the happiest time of my life 
since I was a child with my mother in the forest? Never 
since — even at the Lauenhain, though I love it, as you know, 
have I been so happy.” 

“Never at your music?” said James. 

“Ah — that is different,” was the reply. 

James laughed. 

“And now you are going back to it, eh? — back to be a 
great musician?” he said. 

“I mean at least to work hard, sir,” said Ascher. 

“Bah! Hard work!” exclaimed James. “Let loose your 
soul and the work will be mere child’s play.” 

Ascher was silent, looking out again across the bay, know- 
ing well that it was no use contradicting. 

“But if you are so sorry to go,” said James after a mo- 
ment, “why do you do it?” 

“Because I must get back to it all,” said Martin. “I can- 
not stay longer idling here.” He clasped and unclasped his 
hands with a quick movement. 

“But why idle?” said James, watching him curiously. 
“Have we not masters here, have we not music — not so far 
from Rathness — in London — in Edinburgh?” 

Martin did not answer, but, as James had expected, he 
politely repressed a smile. 

“I see,” said James, “it’s because you despise us — both 
our music-masters and our music.” 

“No, no, sir!” Martin protested laughing, but James per- 

“You do,” he said. 

“Well, sir — if you will have it!” said Martin lightly. “You 


IN WHICH TWO WAYS PART 7 

see — in music we have — traditions. Surely you British grant 
us that — you who in all else have such great possessions.” 

“My dear boy,” said James, “of course we do, however 
grudgingly, because we have to. Your Beethoven and 
Schumann and Brahms and the rest are too much even for 
our self-complacency. But, Ascher,” he went on after a mo- 
ment’s pause, “are your people, the present generation I 
mean, as — as they used to be in the old days? Somehow, of 
late, when I have been in Germany, I have wondered ” 

He broke off suddenly, and sat frowning at the sea in 
silence. 

“The present generation doesn’t trouble me, sir,” said 
Martin. “In Berlin I live a life apart — with the Immortals.” 

“I believe you,” said James. “But the present-day Mor- 
tals may have to be reckoned with all the same.” 

“Perhaps,” said Martin, “but my business with them will 
be merely that of an interpreter. I myself will not have to 
reckon with them. I shall leave that to the Immortals them- 
selves. What I have to do is simply to prepare myself for 
my part. These great ones will do the rest.” 

His eyes grew dreamy, while James sat watching him, his 
own face set for the moment in rather grim lines. 

“So you must go,” he said at last. 

“And by God they need you, and such as you, over 
there,” he added. “They need you to remind them of what 
has been, to save them from themselves, and from the plots 
of that mad Kaiser of theirs.” 

“Take care, sir!” said Martin, saluting at the word, half 
in jest and half in earnest. “Remember he is my Kaiser 
too!” 

Then, as James did not reply, he added — “I would have 
had to go now anyhow, sir. My uncle, you know, desires 
it.” 

“So it seems,” said James. “He orders you as though he 
were your commanding officer. By the way, you have 
served your time in the army, I suppose?” 

“Yes — thank God that’s over,” said Ascher. 


8 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“You disliked it?” 

“I hated it.” 

“Then thank God it’s over,” repeated James. “But about 
your return to your country — to Germany. Your uncle 
seems very peremptory and urgent about it.” 

“Very urgent,” said Ascher. 

“I don’t like your uncle,” said James. 

“Nor do I, sir,” said Ascher. “I cannot understand how 
he came to be my mother’s brother. She was so fine — so-^ 
so — different.” 

“She must have been,” said James. 

Ascher did not hear him. 

“And an artist to her finger-tips,” he went on. “Ah, you 
should have heard her play, sirl It is from her I have 
my ” 

“Your splendid gift,” James broke in. “Your rare genius. 
Ah — some day — if you can do what I have told you — if you 
can let loose your soul — you will be the world’s greatest 
pianist. Mark my words. I, James Carruthers, have said 
it.” 

Ascher laughed. 

“And you, sir?” he retorted. 

“I shall be the world’s greatest Investigator for the mo- 
ment,” said James. 

“You are optimistic to-day, sir,” said Ascher, smiling. 

“I have reason for my optimism,” was the grave rejoinder. 

Ascher turned towards him in surprise. 

“The meaning of one of my visions has been explained 
to me,” said James, his tired eyes kindling. “It is not a 
vision at all, it is a memory, a Soul-Memory — that has been 
retained by my Greater Personality — through the ages — 
through many incarnations. Ascher, my boy — I believe 
that this is a day of departure for me too. I believe that 
I am on the eve of a tremendous series of discoveries.” 

“Do you indeed, sir?” exclaimed Ascher, eagerly. 

“You know, of course, who the Minoans were?” said 
James, fixing his gaze upon his pupil. 


IN WHICH TWO WAYS PART 


9 


“I have never heard of them, sir,” said Ascher. 

“You are abysmally ignorant, I fear,” said his preceptor. 
“Have I never mentioned Minoans to you?” 

“Never, sir,” said Ascher. 

“I have mentioned the Vision I mean, however,” said 
Mr. Carruthers. “I mean the one of the strange figure like 
a hatchet that I see carved upon a stone wall — in a glare of 
sunshine, with an inscription beneath it which I cannot read, 
and which is neither in Greek nor in Latin. It has recurred 
often since I first saw it in my early childhood. My grand- 
father was interested in it. ‘Never mind about examinations, 
Jimmy/ he would say. ‘Don’t you pin yourself down to 
any special subjects. You keep your mind free and open 
for that Vision of yours. It may make you a famous man 
yet.’ . . . My father did not agree with him, and that has 
delayed me considerably. But no matter — what do you 
think I came across yesterday in a book shown to me by 
chance by Professor Swanwick — and sent to him by a friend, 
who is in Crete, excavating? Ascher, I can hardly believe it 
yet, I found my Vision there.” 

“You found it, sir?” exclaimed Ascher, afire with interest. 

“I found a picture of the strange hatchet-like figure,” 
said Mr. Carruthers, “exactly the same as I see it, only 
without the glow and colour. And I am now convinced, 
as I have told you, that my Vision is not a vision at all. In 
some former life I have been a Minoan, a dweller — a humble 
dweller perhaps — but still a dweller in one of the magnifi- 
cent palaces of Knossos built by the descendants of men who 
were living and working in Crete — think of this, my boy — 
thousands of years before the Garden of Eden was thought 
of!” 

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Ascher. “You make my 
brain reel, sir!” 

“Let it reel ! ” said Mr. Carruthers. “It will do it good, 
if the experience shows it that there are other points of 
view besides those to which it is accustomed. But listen 
to this, Ascher, for all that I have said yet is as nothing to 


io THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


what I am now about to tell you. The figure I have seen 
so often carved in stone is the double axe — a symbol used 
as a mark of power and royalty by the Minoan kings and 
queens. But, under the figure, you remember, I see an 
inscription which, though plainly written, is as incompre- 
hensible to me as the writing on the wall at the feast was 
to King Belshazzar. I cannot understand it, and no wonder. 
No one can, Ascher! No one in the world at present. The 
inscription is in an unreadable language.” 

“Unreadable?” said Ascher. 

“Yes, and for this reason,” said Mr. Carruthers. “No 
double inscription has ever been found, as in other cases, 
in which the same words have been written side by side in 
two languages, one of which is known. No monument has 
been discovered like the Rosetta stone by which the hiero- 
glyphics of Egypt were interpreted. The world still awaits 
the revelation of the meaning lying behind those strange 
characters for the most part inscribed on tablets of clay, 
which have been hardened and thus preserved to us by the 
flames of a great catastrophe.” 

“A great catastrophe?” said Ascher, awestricken, his 
quick imagination looking down the ages. “How did it hap- 
pen, sir?” 

“It is not known,” said Mr. Carruthers. “The Minoans 
were a great sea-power. They ruled the seas as Britain 
does now, and it is probable that their land army — as they 
say ours is now — was insufficient to protect them when a 
hostile landing took place. Some other power must have 
met and conquered their navy, surprised the palace, over- 
powered its guards, and set fire to it. That is certain.” 

“Strange,” said Ascher, “and all the passion and terror 
and horror of what happened are now as though they had 
never been? They have left no record?” 

“No,” said James, “except one thing perhaps — the stone 
pedestal of a lamp, which was found, set as though in haste, 
on the sill of a staircase-window. . . . One wonders whether 
the man, who was carrying it, escaped. . . . But what I was 


IN WHICH TWO WAYS PART n 


going to say was — that in the awful holocaust — along with 
who knows what exquisite and priceless things — all hope of 
finding out the meaning of the script by ordinary means has 
apparently for ever perished.” 

There was a moment’s pause while both sat pondering, 
and the larks sang, and the bees hummed, and the tide crept 
nearer and nearer. 

“Why is it do you think, sir,” said Ascher at last, “that 
such things are allowed, such orgies of destruction as are 
always happening in the world?” 

“God knows,” said James, “since it is God who allows 
them. Some would tell you that they are the result of 
former happenings. The sins of the fathers being visited on 
the children. . . 

“Yet they would not be right in every case,” said Martin. 
“Look here, sir! I could make a catastrophe happen now. 
There’s a colony of ants below this bush here, all as busy 
and happy as any Minoans ever were, all with their little 
plans and treasures laid up, no doubt. Yet with this piece 
of rock in my hand here, I, just for the fun of the thing, 
could smash them all to atoms!” 

“Ascher, you are horrible,” said Mr. Carruthers, “and you 
have interrupted me at the most important point of my 
story. If — as I think — as I am practically certain — my 
Vision is not a vision at all but a memory — I am determined 
if possible to establish a connection between my Greater 
Memory and my present faculty, in other words, to put my 
present faculty at the disposal of my Soul-Memory even as 
the automatic writer puts his hand and his power of writing 
at the disposal of the controlling spirit.” 

“I understand, sir, I understand,” said Ascher, eagerly. 

Mr. Carruthers regarded him triumphantly for a moment. 

“So you see,” he went on then, “why to-day I am an 
optimist. But come along,” he added, rising stiffly, “the day 
is fading. Let us go from here while it is still warm and 
gay and fragrant, so that this memory, at least, may remain 
perfect, through whatever may come after.” 


12 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


“Your optimism is fading too, sir, it seems, 1 ” said Ascher, 
as he began following his companion up the rugged slope to 
the path which runs along the top of the cliffs. 

“You shall be David to my Saul/’ returned Mr. Carruth- 
ers. “I told them to have food ready, and a huge fire. After 
we have had supper, there will still be time before morning. 
Your train, I think you said, does not leave till about seven. 
I want the Ballades and the Nocturnes and my four special 
Sonatas, and then you may play whatever you like. . . . 
That is,” he added, recollecting himself, “if you don’t want 
to sleep — if you care to play to me?” 

“Care to? I should think I did!” said Ascher. “There 
is no one in the world I care to play to so much as you, 
sir. Besides,” he laughed, “your man with the lamp might 
give me the nightmare. I would rather not sleep to-night 
anyhow.” 


CHAPTER I 


IN WHICH A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER COME FOR THE 
FIRST TIME FACE TO FACE, WITH THE RESULT THAT A 
COURT-MARTIAL, NOWHERE ELSE RECORDED, IS HELD 

The curious little episode of Inter-war History, the details 
of which are now to be written down for the first time, 
may be said to have begun — though who shall say when 
any tale concerning human beings really begins or ends? — 
on a grey afternoon of October, 1918, at the precise moment 
when Mrs. Abercrombie, returning from a committee meet- 
ing, first saw the notice of the serious shortage of coal posted 
up on a hoarding at a street corner of Rathness. It was a 
large and sensational notice with the word coal printed in 
lurid yellow upon a black ground, and below it, in startling 
white letters, was the information that as most of the supply 
for the winter had already been used to save the allied 
armies in the spring, the very strictest economy was now 
necessary. 

“Well, this puts the lid on it,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
for she was the friend and confidante of every niece and 
nephew she had, and to the wonder and scandal of her con- 
temporaries often quite unconsciously made use of their ex- 
pressions. As she spoke she came to a standstill on the edge 
of the pavement, a sturdy, rather stout, but still shapely 
middle-aged figure, with one of those handsome florid faces 
which after a certain age seem to grow no older. It was 
framed in thick bands of smooth, dark hair lightly touched 
with grey, and was always radiant with the genial interest 
in all her fellow-creatures which was one of her main char- 
acteristics. Her black garments had a certain pre-war dis- 

13 


14 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

tinction about them which had once been smartness, for 
their owner had had a weakness for chiffons. In the dusk or 
at a distance she still looked the woman of fashion that she 
had been in 1914. It was only at close range that one no- 
ticed how the four years of war had added historical interest 
to her attire, for patriotic and not pecuniary reasons. Mrs. 
Abercrombie was a woman of fortune, widow of Archibald 
Abercrombie, Esq., of the Villa Fiore, near Fiesole, and of 
Number Three Canmore Place, Rathness, well-known about 
twenty years ago in artistic circles as one of the most gifted 
and charming connoisseurs and dilettantes of his day. 

As befitted the wife of such a man, Emmeline Abercrom- 
bie, at the time of her marriage, though not strictly beauti- 
ful, had been extremely fascinating, combining in her per- 
sonality the ease and grace of manner which came to her 
with a dash of good French blood, and the quick temper and 
high courage of forebears belonging to one of the most not- 
able and ancient of the Highland clans. Her husband al- 
ways said, however, that her warm heart, her impulsiveness, 
and her quick responsive sympathy with all and sundry that 
crossed her path were neither French nor Scottish, but a 
legacy from some Irish ancestor so remote or so disreputable 
as to have found no recognition in the family archives, and 
the constant dilemmas in which this landed her were a 
source of entertainment to him up to the close of his too 
short life. 

“You are completely wasted you know, Em, in your role 
as my wife,” he would say to her when she was enlarging to 
him upon some new enthusiasm for which she was ready at 
the moment to go to any lengths. “You should have been 
a leader of forlorn hopes, or an Arctic explorer, or an Early 
Christian martyr.” 

It must always, for his sake, be regretted that it was not 
given to him to see his Em confronted with the opportunities 
of the war. At the time of the murder of the Archduke at 
Sarajevo he had been more than twenty years in his grave, 
and the wife whom he had left a dark vivid little woman in 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 15 

her early thirties, was in her fifty-fifth year and somewhat 
faded and life-worn. The warm heart in her was still the 
same, however, except that, having passed in the intervening 
years through many fires of experience, it was more eager 
and interested than it had ever been. Withal it had re- 
mained young, as only those hearts do which have been 
given in their youth to their first loves. 

“It’s a pleasure to me to have them,” she would say to 
fathers and mothers who thanked her for her kindness to 
their sons and daughters; “they remind me so much of 
myself when I was young and of my poor boy who is dead 
and gone.” 

As was to be expected, the war plunged her into a mael- 
strom of sympathies and activities. Rathness on the whole 
was a hard-working little place in those days, but no one in 
Rathness worked harder than Mrs. Abercrombie. Early and 
late she was attending committee meetings, public meetings, 
and work-parties of all kinds. The old house, at 3 Canmore 
Place, never saw her except when she rushed in, between 
appointments, to snatch a meal, or entertain soldiers and 
their relations, or hold sub-committee meetings there. It 
did not seem to miss its mistress, however. Rather did a 
serene contentment with its deserted lot seem to settle down 
upon it. Elizabeth and Martha and Catherine, the three 
maids, attended to its wants as though nothing outside it 
were happening. There were no parties now to upset its 
calm or disarrange its furniture. It might have been the an- 
cient days returned when the light-hearted Archibald’s 
father — old Archibald — passed his last monotonous days 
there, and when the house itself seemed to be of far more 
consequence than its half comatose and insignificant owner. 

When Martha felt it to be her duty to go and work in 
a munition-factory the house can hardly have known the 
difference. Certainly no one else did, for Elizabeth and 
Catherine shared Martha’s duties between them. Even when 
Catherine left to be a cook at a hospital and some of the 
rooms had to be draped in dust-sheets and shut up, the 


16 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


change was to outsiders still imperceptible. The steps up 
to the door were as white as ever, the brasses as glittering, 
the windows as crystal-clear as ever they had been in Cath- 
erine’s time. Elizabeth prided herself upon not allowing 
the reduced woman-power of the establishment to become 
noticeable, and so well did she achieve this purpose that the 
house only seemed, in Catherine’s absence, to have become 
a degree more peaceful and more nearly perfect. 

Therefore, when, standing on the edge of the pavement 
considering the coal-shortage notice, Mrs. Abercrombie had 
remarked that it put the lid on it,, she spoke with reference 
rather to the past than to the future, and meant that the 
necessity for economy in fuel had brought a certain dubiety 
in her mind to a conclusion as to the course she ought to 
pursue with regard to Elizabeth. 

Since the last urgent appeal for women-workers, Eliza- 
beth, the silent-footed, deft-handed servant of the house, 
and incidentally of its mistress, had been a burden to Mrs. 
Abercrombie’s conscience. What right had she in war-time 
— a lone woman still of working age and hardly ever in the 
house — to the ministrations of such a perfect servant? 
Surely a charwoman in emergencies should suffice her. She 
had all but decided to announce this to Elizabeth, and now 
this shortage notice swept away any last hesitations she 
might have had upon the subject. The kitchen fire-place 
at 3 Canmore Place was of ancient build, and a bottomless 
pit for fuel. Yet Elizabeth without her kitchen fire was a§ 
inconceivable as a priestess without her altar. When her 
mistress had suggested her using only the little open fire- 
place in the servants’ hall and not lighting the kitchen fire 
at all, Elizabeth had only smiled — she had a certain way of 
smiling — and had asked politely how about the hot water 
then? The fire in the servants’ hall would not heat the hot 
water. When Mrs. Abercrombie had hesitated in her reply, 
having as a matter of fact never thought of the hot water, 
Elizabeth had pressed her advantage by saying, how about 
the pipes getting frozen and perhaps bursting? Clearly 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 17 

Elizabeth, perfect as she was, seemed to be lamentably un- 
adaptable. The war, to her, was something quite outside 
her sphere, so long, at least, as she remained in her kitchen. 
But she had said the day before that Martha had written 
her asking her to join her. Large wages were to be had at 
the munition-works. Elizabeth had implied that in re- 
maining faithful to 3 Canmore Place she was sacrificing a 
fortune. Why not go then? her mistress had urged, feeling 
that to continue to allow herself to be served under these 
conditions was to be a robber not only of her country but 
of Elizabeth. Elizabeth, however, had merely smiled once 
more, and opined that, all things considered, she was better 
where she was, and that so long as she attended to the 
house and set her mistress entirely free to do war-work 
surely she was doing her bit. Thus Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
conscience had been appeased for that time. This urgent 
notice of the coal-shortage, however, was another matter. 
Before, it had been a mere vague rumour in the air. Now 
it was put plainly before her in black and white and lurid 
yellow. Smile or no smile, hot water or no hot water, burst 
pipes or no burst pipes Elizabeth must use the economical 
fire-place — or better still — Mrs. Abercrombie here became 
recklessly patriotic — Elizabeth must go l One fire in a 
house for one woman was surely all that was necessary. 
Let the drawing-room fire be that fire and let all others be 
extinguished. 

Mrs. Abercrombie here set off homewards with a free step, 
and that very night all was over with Elizabeth. It had 
been agreed that she was to report herself next afternoon 
at the recruiting-office. No longer would Mrs. Abercrombie 
consent to stand between her and her country’s need of her, 
no longer presume to detain her at fifty pounds a year when 
her country’s untold gold awaited her. There was no men- 
tion of coal between them, but this Elizabethan era, like its 
famous predecessor, closed in a glorious blaze. That night 
the kitchen range roared like a fiery furnace, and Mrs. Ab- 


18 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

ercrombie had a scalding bath, wondering all the time when 
she would have another like it. 

Next day Elizabeth, after devoting the morning and the 
earlier part of the day to a quite unnecessary orgie of pol- 
ishing and cleaning, left the house shining and gleaming be- 
hind her and went to the recruiting-office. She returned in 
time to make tea, and informed her mistress, who also, for 
once, had returned in time for it, that she had been ordered 
to report herself again as soon as her uniform was ready, 
and that, as she believed she would be needed soon, she 
wished to leave immediately in order to see something of 
her relations first. 

Mrs. Abercrombie cordially assented to this. She knew 
those relations. They lived in Rathness and were called 
Speed, though their name should have been legion. If 
Elizabeth did not go to see them at this crisis in her career, 
they would undoubtedly come to see Elizabeth. Already 
one of them it seemed — the eldest niece — Devina Speed — 
was waiting in the kitchen to see Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“She’s just fifteen but she’s a good worker and would 
take my place while I was away,” said her aunt. 

But Mrs. Abercrombie also knew Devina, and rather well 
too. She was a member — a leading member — in fact the 
flower and pride of the junior section of the girls’ club where 
Mrs. Abercrombie had been wont to speak, with the fire 
and eloquence natural to her, upon domestic subjects. Her 
quick imagination pictured Devina within the four walls of 
her house, confronting her with silent criticism, challenging 
her to practise what she had preached, haunting her with 
her unwelcome presence, for, though she sincerely admired 
her, she had never liked Devina. 

“Thank you very much, Elizabeth,” she said. “It was 
kind of you to suggest it, but I have decided to do my bit 
too, and to save coal, and manage the house myself.” 

Elizabeth was so startled that she did not even smile. 

“Oh, M’m,” she exclaimed, “surely you’re never goin’ to 
attemp’ that 1” 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 19 

But if she had thought for half a day she could not have 
chosen a speech more inciting to Mrs. Abercrombie at that 
moment. She had unconsciously, too, accented the last 
word, which seemed to imply that other feats had been 
attempted by her mistress unsuccessfully. 

“Not only shall I attempt it, Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Aber- 
ciombie, “but I shall accomplish it.” 

“Oh, but M’m,” remonstrated Elizabeth again, “you with 
all your outside work — but maybe you will be givin’ up the 
outside work?” 

“Not one jot nor tittle of it,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, for 
her blood was up. 

Elizabeth stared in silent amazement. 

“At the present day, Elizabeth,” continued Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, “housekeeping cannot be carried on in the same 
manner as in pre-war times. I, for instance, have no in- 
tention of doing everything as you have been accustomed to 
do it.” 

Here Elizabeth must have begun to recover, for the ghost 
of her smile reappeared upon her dazed countenance. 

“With so many much more important things to do out- 
side,” Mrs. Abercrombie went on, “I shall simply select the 
essentials, and let the rest — rip. With my gas-cooker and 
my letter-box I shall be perfectly comfortable. And even 
if I were not — think of what infinitely worse discomfort 
thousands of people are at this moment undergoing.” 

That evening Elizabeth, leaving enough food cooked for 
two days’ meals, took her departure. When she had really 
gone, accompanied by those members of the Speed family 
who had arrived to escort her, Mrs. Abercrombie, having 
locked the back door, took occasion, for there was no com- 
mittee meeting just then, and she had eschewed the Guild 
for that afternoon, to look over the less familiar part of her 
domain. 

A curious feeling that she was making the acquaintance 
of her house for the first time came upon her as she wan- 


20 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

dered, candle in hand, through the passages of the lower 
regions peering into cupboards she had half forgotten, not- 
ing for the first time details of furniture and architecture. 

“It was like discovering new traits of character in an old 
friend,” she said afterwards. “It was eerie, uncanny, and 
the scullery was worst of all. There were so many things 
there that I had never seen before, much less knew how 
to use, all winking and blinking at me — ugh, it was 
beastly!” 

Upstairs, however, there was the drawing-room and the 
fire, and never had a fire looked so beautiful to Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. As she dined with her little round table drawn 
up to the genial warmth, she felt happy again — nay, more 
than happy — elated. 

The sense of depression, however, returned slightly the 
next morning when she found her dinner-dishes as she had 
left them the night before, and a first qualm of realisation 
of the inertness of Things came upon her with a chill as of 
foreboding. 

There was no time for much of it, however, for she was 
already late for the Guild, having sat too long in the com- 
panionship of the fire the night before, and consequently 
wakened late. 

A rapid survey showed her that nothing was aggressively 
in need of dusting. The hand of Elizabeth, though van- 
ished, was still in evidence in gleams and glitters all over 
the house. It was like a hall of mirrors. 

Mrs. Abercrombie saw herself reflected on every hand. 

“Poor Elizabeth,” she said to herself as she noted this too 
for the first time, “and to think that I should take it all as 
a matter of course that she should spend her life for years 
doing it! No wonder she wanted a change not only from 
the house but from my obtuseness!” 

Mrs. Abercrombie had decided that she would not dust 
every day. As she tied on her hat with a veil, for the morn- 
ing was stormy, she harangued her reflection in her mirror 
upon the subject. 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 21 

“Housekeeping,” she said, “will be difficult or easy just 
as you choose to make it. A large part of the time gener- 
ally required may be saved by a little forethought. If 
things are not disarranged they will need no rearranging. 
If polished surfaces are carefully avoided, they will not need 
repolishing. Thus the best remedy for waste of time will 
be to come in contact with as few things as possible.” 

The one exception to these regulations was the fire. This, 
however, she had already tackled and laid ready for the 
evening. Long practice in fire-making at picnics in her 
youth — for Archibald had loved picnics — gave her in this 
facility and dexterity, and she went forth from it to her 
outside work with a comfortable sense of power and capa- 
bility. 

In this mood criticism only strengthened her determina- 
tion. 

“Now why,” said her next neighbour at the Guild that 
morning, an old acquaintance, a Miss Carruthers, “why not 
shut up the house and go into lodgings? You would then 
be saving still more coal.” 

“But I might be occupying the place of one who had no 
other house,” replied Mrs. Abercrombie, “or who would not 
be inclined to be so economical in it.” 

She lunched on sandwiches in the ante-room of the Guild, 
made one hundred and fifty-seven ball-swabs in the after- 
noon, and had tea there before, slightly tired, she again 
turned her thoughts homewards. Then for the first time she 
found herself reluctant to follow them, and started off 
abruptly to stop herself becoming afraid to face the dreari- 
ness awaiting her. 

The fire, however, soon revived her, together with the 
inward glow of satisfaction she experienced when, foraging 
for dinner, she peeped into the dim kitchen and saw the 
rapacious maw of the old range black and empty. After 
she had finished her meal she sat on dreaming in the fire- 
light, too lazy to close the curtains and light the gas. The 
whole room was full of ruddy light. Over the piano hung 


22 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

the portrait of her husband, done by a young artist who 
would have been famous had he lived. The glow touching 
it made it seem to smile as the original had smiled so often 
in the long ago at her and her vagaries. She lay back in 
her low chair looking at it and smiling too at the thought of 
how her Archie would have been amused by this new de- 
parture. 

His Em her own cook-housekeeper! How he would have 
laughed! She remembered how he had wondered often 
how she would get on without him to take care of her and 
guard her from what he had called her ententes with the 
irrelevant; and how they two had laughed heartily together, 
even when he was on his death-bed, at a caricature — which 
now hung framed over her mirror — that he had made of her 
as his relict. 

She sat thus dreaming until the glow faded and the fire 
died down. Then she went to bed. . . . 

No dreams awaited her in the morning, however — only 
dishes. 

Another chill wave of the realisation of the stillness of 
still life swept over her at the sight of them. Her natural 
'energy, however, rose to the occasion. She boiled a kettle- 
ful of water, washed them all up, and had sat down to 
breakfast before she remembered that she should have 
waited to include the things she was then using. 

“You will have to concentrate,” she announced to herself, 
“if you are to have time for anything but washing up.” 

She began by boiling an egg in the tea-kettle, and, this 
accomplished, she went to search for the milk. She found 
it on the doorstep. She also found that owing to the storm 
and rain of the night before the exterior of the house had 
become strangely altered. The area, which Elizabeth had 
left white and spotless, was carpeted and heaped in places 
with wet and withered leaves. The steps were drifted with 
them, and so was the door-mat. As for the brasses 

Their owner stood contemplating them, and, wishing that 
she had paid more attention the day before, when Elizabeth 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 23 

had shown her where the cleaning things were, and she had 
just decided that, as the storm was evidently not yet over, 
she had better leave them altogether to another time, when 
interference from an unexpected quarter suddenly made her 
change her mind. 

“Please, M’m,” said a suave voice at her elbow, “Eliza- 
beth said to come and see if ye was needin’ any help.” 

She turned and beheld, standing among the sodden leaves 
on the pavement, a trim damsel with a pink tam-o’-shanter 
and long pig-tails who was steadily regarding her. 

“Thank you, Devina,” said Mrs. Abercrombie at once, as 
she thought of those eyes viewing various disorders in the 
interior. “It was very kind of Elizabeth to tell you to 
come, but it was quite unnecessary. When I need you I 
shall let you know.” 

“Very good, M’m,” said Devina, and withdrew politely, 
but only to the other side of the square, whence she was 
able to observe with great satisfaction the difficulties Mrs. 
Abercrombie subsequently encountered. Mrs. Abercrombie 
saw her too, and it did not improve her temper, as her 
assistants at the canteen that day soon became aware. 

“What’s come to Mrs. Abercrombie?” said one to an- 
other. . . . 

That night, instead of concentrating her dinner-things as 
she had intended, she not only doubled but re-doubled them. 

“I had no idea that the Hatter was a pathetic figure,” 
she said to herself as, too dead beat to think of washing up 
anything, she took more dishes from the cupboard. “I 
always thought he was merely comic. But Things — Tea- 
Things — had literally become too much for him. I shall 
never laugh at his party any more.” 

Five days passed, and, by the end of them, the occasional 
fits of realisation had become one continuous state of mind. 
In the background of her consciousness, amid all the out- 
side work the house stood, ever a waiting reproach. When 
she entered it in the evenings it seemed to close in upon her 
with all its needs, its little neglected details. An awesome 


24 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

sense of deterioration, even of disintegration seemed to per- 
vade it everywhere. It was as though Elizabeth had been 
the soul of it, and with her gone, it was decomposing. 

Always, however, when the fire burned up, strong reaction 
would set in and Mrs. Abercrombie would become mistress 
of it again. Settling herself comfortably in her low chair 
with her feet on the fender she would confront it boldly. 

“It all depends,” she would say to it, “upon the stand- 
point I take up. From a pre-war standpoint I admit that 
you are in a regrettable state, but, comparing you with some 
of the chateaux in France and Belgium at this moment, you 
are nothing of the sort.” 

In this mood she again dismissed Devina Speed, who 
called once more to ask her if she did not want her to 
come and wash. She thanked her and said she would send 
everything to the laundry in order to be as communal as 
possible. She talked to Devina quite a long time about 
being communal, and developed the idea that afternoon at 
a committee meeting, having a rather sharp encounter with 
the Chair for starting the question — in the midst of a dis- 
cussion about a Red Cross concert — of a Communal 
Kitchen for the entire population of Rathness. 

Returning late that night, she found in her letter-box 
field-postcards from two of her favourite nephews saying 
that their leaves were due, and that they hoped one day 
soon to come and take her by surprise, together. This 
message altered the whole aspect of things in a moment. 
The house on a sudden became not a house merely but the 
place where she was presently to receive her two dear 
darlings. 

Next day, having a presentiment that they would appear 
within twenty-four hours, she threw herself headlong into 
preparations. Guild, canteen, everything else, went by the 
board. She spent the whole day making up beds, sweeping, 
dusting, scrubbing, and telephoning for provisions. Callers 
rang the front-door bell and received no response. Be- 
wildered message-boys were ordered from above to deposit 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 25 

their parcels on the window-sills. Yet, had Devina called 
to offer her services again that day, she would have re- 
ceived the same answer. 

“For now, more than ever, I must save the coal,” she said 
to herself, “that I may have a good blaze all .the time the 
dear boys are here.” 

Word was sent to Devina by a message-boy, however, 
that at any moment she might be required, with the result 
that when she was not haunting Canmore Place she was 
seated in the shop whose telephone was to summon her. 

No message came, however. Mrs. Abercrombie’s presenti- 
ment notwithstanding, twenty-four hours passed, forty-eight 
hours, and still there was no sign. On the morning of the 
third day a telegram arrived at Canmore Place. “Leave 
indefinitely postponed,” and, looking round the drawing- 
room after reading it, Mrs. Abercrombie had the worst fit 
of realisation she had ever had. For again the indescrib- 
able deterioration of everything had set in. All her work 
had apparently gone for nothing. A haze of neglect lay 
over everything just as though she had never made an ef- 
fort. The whole house seemed to her at that moment to be 
personified in a bulgy old Indian image seated opposite, his 
gorgeous garments dim with dust, even his fat smile ob- 
scured. 

“But if you think that I am going to dust you again 
now,” she said rising, “you are jolly well mistaken.” 

And she went off to the Guild and did ninety-six ball- 
swabs and three pneumonia jackets before evening. . . . 

Two days after that she made a speech, still remembered 
in Rathness, at a meeting to promote the British Empire 
Union for the defence of the country against aliens, and 
was made president of the Rathness Branch. She had not 
meant even to go to the meeting, but had gone with a 
friend, and when there had, as usual, been moved to voluble 
self-expression. Afterwards, on thinking it over, she be- 
lieved that the house had made her do it — the house with 
•Elizabeth and the Germans and the Kaiser and the Devil 


26 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


at the back of it. Anyhow, the speech was a very violent 
speech. One woman in the audience even got up and said 
she wondered that anyone calling herself a Christian could 
say such things, upon which Mrs. Abercrombie reminded 
her of the anathemas of Christ Himself against the Scribes 
and Pharisees, and was thereafter uninterrupted. 

Nevertheless that evening, seated again by the fire, with 
Archie’s portrait in the flickering light watching her, she 
felt unhappy about it, and wondered what he would have 
said. Memories came to her of Frankfort and the long ago, 
and the Palmengarten with its lights and music where they 
had first met, and the Museums concert where they had 
sat hand in hand listening to the Beethoven Number One.' 

Many stories have been written about haunted houses, 
but has there ever been one about a person who was house- 
haunted? 

The house soon began to pursue Mrs. Abercrombie where- 
soever she went. It changed her from a genial soul into a 
being with whom it was impossible to get on. 

Informal meetings were held sub rosa in corners of draw- 
ing-rooms and work-rooms to discuss what was to be done 
about it. But as is usual in such cases nothing was done, 
and Mrs. Abercrombie’s tongue, during the ten days or so 
that followed, may be said to have run amok in Rathness. 
She quarrelled with everyone. She even quarrelled with her 
own hobbies. She reached a climax at a meeting of the 
Women Citizens, when they were discussing reconstruction 
after the war, and the question was asked whether anything 
were likely to be done in the town to provide more com- 
modious homes for workpeople. 

“God forbid!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “The fewer rooms 
to keep they have the better.” 

Yet a hundred times before in Rathness she had passion- 
ately advocated more spacious housing. 

“In my opinion,” said the secretary, a Miss Mylde, “poor 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 27 

Mrs. Abercrombie is suffering from some form of war- 
dementia.” 

This brief speech upon housing, however, was the last she 
was to deliver at that time, for the next day was The Day — 
Der Tag, as the Kaiser would have called it. 

It began abominably. It was drizzling rain, and when, 
in melancholy mood, Mrs. Abercrombie was looking out of 
the window for a moment, the porridge singed. This 
brought on a severe fit of realisation before breakfast, a 
time when it was most difficult to combat. The odour of 
burnt meal, together with the feeling of incompetence which 
it suggested, had an enraging effect, and the house deliber- 
ately aggravated it. Everywhere it seemed to obtrude its 
requirements as a beggar, asking alms, draws attention to 
his sores. On one side were unwashed dishes, on the other 
were unscraped pots. Behind these things visible were oth- 
ers invisible — vistas of unswept passages, saharas of un- 
switched carpets. Behind these again, and more rousing 
than all, were powers of darkness in the form of old tradi- 
tions, along with a sense of their futility in war-time and 
wrath at the weakness that could feel discomfort at the 
thought of them. The tout ensemble produced a kind of 
frenzy in Mrs. Abercrombie. She spoke aloud. She ad- 
dressed the house. 

“You old Juggernaut!” she said. “You old effete fossil 
of an outworn civilisation, you shall not hinder me for one 
instant! I am going off now to do really necessary things, 
and you need not expect a single stroke of work from me 
to-day. Deteriorate if you like — disintegrate — rot — I don’t 
care a damn what you do!” 

Then, banging the door behind her, she went out. 

When she reached the Guild the first person she met was 
Miss Mylde. 

“How clever of you to be so early!” she exclaimed. 
“And your maid away, too! How do you manage?” 

“Oh, these things can always be managed,” she replied, 


28 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

but in such a tone that no more questions were asked of 
her. 

“Take care,” she had almost added, for the desire to 
dig her needle into her questioner had come suddenly and 
violently upon her. 

The morning passed. She lunched with a Mrs. Jardine, 
who generally had everything as charming as she was her- 
self. That day, however, she had to have the children there 
because the nurse had left, and, as her guest said after- 
wards, there was neither comfort nor coherence. 

She need not have gone to the canteen after that, but the 
thought of returning to the house had become a nightmare 
to her. She seemed to see it looming over her all afternoon 
— a dignified and insulted Presence. At last, however, 
about ten o’clock, there was no longer any excuse for delay. 

“I am sure you will be glad to get home, Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie,” said the caretaker, as she helped her with her rain- 
coat. “You look fit to drop.” 

This, of course, had the effect of making her feel worse 
than she had ever felt yet. She had, without knowing it, 
looked fit to drop all day. Now, however, for the first 
time, she felt it. She could hardly drag herself along the 
streets. It was very dark and she had sometimes to feel her 
way. Twice she stumbled and nearly fell. Before she came 
to the corner where she had to turn into Canmore Place it 
had begun to rain steadily, and she was feeling, as she after- 
wards said, like nothing on earth. 

She was afraid to look at the house. A kind of terror 
was upon her at the thought of going into it again alone and 
seeing everything ranged up against her. That Something 
Vital, however, which stands outside and looks on, reminded 
her that this was only tiredness, and that she would feel 
better later. Thus reassured she thrust her latch-key into 
the lock, turned it, opened the door, and then stopped short 
as though transfixed. 

The house was no longer as she had left it. It was no 
longer empty. Light was pouring out of the open door of 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 29 

the drawing-room into the inner hall. Voices — voices of 
men, and footsteps of people in heavy boots seemed to be 
here, there, and everywhere; and from the basement, which 
she had left cold and silent as any vault, came a fizzing 
sound and a strong smell of fish frying. 

It was this last, Mrs. Abercrombie afterwards said, that 
was the pink limit and fairly floored her. All she remem- 
bered, after sniffing it, was snatching wildly at the um- 
brella-stand, which fell immediately, crashing for- 
wards. . . . 

When she came to herself — for she had actually fainted 
for the first time in all her life — she was established on 
the drawing-room sofa, exquisitely at ease and deliciously 
tucked up, with two familiar faces bending over her. 

She could not believe her eyes. 

“Archie . . . Reggie!” she gasped. 

Then — “How did you get in?” she added, which showed, 
as she said afterwards, how very rattled she was. 

That she, who for weeks and months had been looking 
forward to this home-coming, should have greeted them with 
such a question! 

But they seemed to think it the most natural in the 
world. 

“By the back door, my dear,” said Reggie. “You had 
forgotten to shut it, and we found a delightful child in the 
area called Devina Speed.” 

“Devina Speed!” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“Yes, and she offered to do messages, so we sent her 
here, there, and everywhere, and now behold the result.” 

A great fire was roaring up the chimney, and the round 
table was drawn up to it, laden with food. Platefuls of all 
kinds of things, cups and saucers were on it, and on other 
tables near, and on the piano. Coffee was boiling, bread 
was toasting. 

“But you would rather go to bed now, wouldn’t you?” 
said Reggie. “We’ve sent for the doctor, but he’s away, 
and perhaps may not be back to-night.” 


30 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Of course she would not hear of going to bed. She as- 
sured them she had never felt better in her life. After they 
had had supper she persuaded them to let her come and sit 
at the fire beside them. Presently, therefore, feeling as 
though she were in a happy dream, she found herself in her 
low chair once more, with her two dear darlings, the fire- 
light setting their faces aglow, seated on the rug at her feet. 

For a little time no one spoke. Mrs. Abercrombie’s heart 
for once was too full for words. Pictures rose before her of 
the two as they had looked when they had sat there before 
as little lads, one from India, one from South America, as 
merry schoolboys, as eager students, and now — from what 
had they come back to her? On Reggie’s breast, in the 
firelight, she could see the ribbon of the D.S.O. 

Archie, her best beloved, in face and form so like the 
Archie who was gone, looked fully ten years older than when 
she had last seen him. There was no ribbon on his breast, 
but this, in her eyes, only made him the more dear; just as 
the groping appreciation of beautiful things, which was all 
that had come down to him of the gifts of his brilliant un- 
cle, had always infused her love for him with special tender- 
ness. It was a moment of moments. She had never felt as 
she did then. 

But all at once Archie spoke. 

“Now, Reggie,” he said. 

“All right,” said Reggie, and laughed. Then, leaning for- 
ward, he knocked the ashes off the end of his cigarette. 

“Aunt Em,” he went on, “we are going to court-martial 
you. You are accused, my dear, of gross neglect of duty.” 

“Neglect of duty? Me?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 

They both laughed aloud. 

“Yes,” Reggie went on. “Is it not the duty of an aunt 
whose nephews are sacrificing everything to keep her com- 
fortable — to keep comfortable, or at least not to work her- 
self to death?” 

“Now don’t say a word,” said Archie, as the accused was 
about to speak. “We know everything already. We have 


A HOUSE AND A HOUSEHOLDER 31 

interviewed Devina Speed. And we now sentence you to 
at least three months total cessation from hard labour.” 

“Impossible, my dears,” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. “That 
Devina Speed knows nothing. She is a prying, interfer- 
ing ” 

“She is, on the contrary,” said Archie, “a very estimable 
young woman, left by Elizabeth on observation duty, which 
she has conscientiously performed.” 

“All the same she is irrelevant,” Reggie broke in. “We 
are wandering from the point, which is, that it is settled 
that you, Aunt Em, go off somewhere as soon as we can ar- 
range it, and remain there hors de combat for as long as we 
please.” 

“But, my beloveds, I can’t,” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“You have no idea ” 

“Yes, we have,” said Reggie. “We know you are on half 
a hundred committees and member of another half hundred 
societies, but surely our peace of mind is more to you than 
all these things?” 

“My dear, you know that,” she said, “but ” 

“We are going back in a few days,” Archie went on, his 
eyes shining in the firelight, “to — to the Great Advance. 
Surely you will do this little thing for us, won’t you — if 
we ask you?” 

She had given in already, of course. Even before the war 
she had never been able to refuse either of her Archie’s 
nephews anything, and since the war began — and well they 
knew it — she would willingly have died for them. Yet she 
made one last effort. 

“Must you ask me to do this?” she said. 

Even as she spoke, however, she was realising how de- 
lightful it would be to be out of everything. 

“Yes, we must,” said Reggie. “What’s the use of us 
fighting away to guard our aunt from the Boches while be- 
hind our backs she is deliberately committing suicide?” 

“And if you care a button for us ” added Archie. 

That quite settled it. 


32 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Two hours afterwards Mrs. Abercrombie was in bed, wide 
awake, but extraordinarily, strangely happy. She had prom- 
ised not to plan anything, but to let everything be planned 
for her, and she had been sitting basking in the firelight 
and her boys’ affection, pretending to listen to them discuss- 
ing where she was to go, but really just watching them. 

It seemed to her as though a great load had been removed 
from her spirit, and it worried her not a whit that the whole 
Speed family had been commandeered to come and tackle 
everything in the morning, for, with her own relief, her 
goodwill to the house had returned. 

“Well, old Juggernaut,” she said to it. “Now you will 
be attended to. All the same,” she added after a moment, 
“it was not you who conquered me, remember!” 

“No,” the house seemed to reply in its own voiceless 
manner. “But — recollect — neither did you conquer me! It 
has been a drawn game between us.” 


CHAPTER II 


IN WHICH AN ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF SOME THINGS THAT 
HAPPENED IN RATHNESS, ONE DARK NIGHT IN THE 
OCTOBER OF NINETEEN HUNDRED AND EIGHTEEN 

But it was one thing for Mrs. Abercrombie to accede to her 
nephews’ request, and quite another for her to become, as 
she had promised, hors de combat. What with committee 
and sub-committee meetings, called in consequence of her 
announcement that she was going away for an indefinite 
time, it took her, even with the assistance of the Speed 
family (to whom the house, in the hours of daylight at 
least, was now given up), over a fortnight to attain to 
leisure. Indeed, as she said, if she had not promised those 
dear boys, she would never have been able to get through 
with what she had to go through. 

As may be supposed, the defection of such a prominent 
worker and organiser at the beginning of the winter did not 
pass without comment. 

“Didn’t I say so?” said Miss Mylde. “You remember 
what I said after she made that outrageous speech about 
the housing question.” 

“If she had tried she couldn’t have chosen a more incon- 
venient time,” said Mrs. Grimshaw of the canteen. “I’m 
sure I can’t understand people always wanting to have rests. 
/ never need a rest.” 

“No, it’s only the people you are always with, who do,” 
said one of her assistants sotto voce as she margarined 
scones at a side-table. . . . 

“But in such an out-of-the-way place as you want to find, 
dear,” said pretty little Mrs. Jardine, who had remained 

33 


34 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

behind, after the last meeting of all, to talk over the mat- 
ter, “won’t you be very lonely?” 

“I sincerely hope so, dear Elise,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

She had not found this Nirvana yet, however. All efforts 
so far had proved futile. The court-martial had laid down 
so many conditions, and fenced her destination about with 
so many stipulations. It had been impossible to have it 
all fixed up, before they had to leave again for France. 
They had, however, left it to her honour, and drawn up a 
list of regulations, which she had had to sign with her full 
name — Emmeline D’Orsay Abercrombie. These were as 
follows: — 

“I hereby promise: — 

“i. That the place of residence, which I shall choose, 
shall not be in the neighbourhood of any war-working com- 
munity. 

“2. That my landlady shall be a housekeeper of the first 
rank, and that I shall leave to her all questions concerning 
the commissariat, and especially the coal ration. 

“3. That I shall confine my war-activities to knitting, 
letter-writing, and parcel-sending. 

“4. That upon no consideration whatever shall I take 
part in any organising. 

“5. That I shall lose no unnecessary time in leaving 
Rathness for — whatever the name of the place is. 

“6. That upon no consideration shall I return to Rath- 
ness, unless in great emergency, under three months, with- 
out due notice and the consent of either — 

“Captain Reginald Abercrombie, 

“Black Watch, 

“B.E.F., France, 

“Or— 

“Lieutenant Archibald Abercrombie, 

“Seaforth Highlanders, 

“B.E.F., France, 

“given and obtained.” 


35 


ONE DARK NIGHT 

Here followed her own signature. 

The last meeting of all had been held at 3 Canmore 
Place. After Mrs. Jardine had left, Mrs. Abercrombie went 
over to her desk and took out a little old blotting-book, in 
which were the above regulations and three letters. The 
regulations she already knew by heart. She took up the let- 
ters, however, and looked them over. They were all answers 
to questions about lodgings, all from out-of-the-way places, 
which, according to the writers, were just the very thing she 
wanted. 

“But how am I to know that they are, till I get there?” 
she said to herself. 

Then the brilliant idea came to her that she would try 
them all in turn, and with that feeling of satisfaction which 
ensues upon any conclusion arrived at, whatever it may be, 
she was inditing notes to all three landladies, when the 
front-door bell rang. 

Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece she saw that it 
was already past the hour at which the Speed family retired 
to their own place, and realised that, if the door was to be 
answered, it must be by herself. 

She went out into the hall therefore. Deep dusk had 
already fallen, but Devina, with her usual forethought, had 
left a peep of gas just sufficient to see the door by. It was 
not enough, however, to let her see who stood without, and 
she did not recognise her visitor until a familiar voice said: 

“May I come in, Mrs. Abercrombie?” 

“Clara Carruthers?” she exclaimed, as cordially as she 
could, for Miss Carruthers was one of her oldest acquaint- 
ances, and though slightly boring, one of the best workers in 
Rathness. 

She did not wait for a more definite invitation. She 
came in at once. 

“I am so sorry to trouble you,” she said, “when you 
must be so busy, but I was so anxious to speak to you. 
I have just received a letter by the evening post which 


36 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

has upset me very much, and I wondered if you would help 
me in the matter.” 

“Certainly, my dear, come in,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
beginning at once to feel more interested; and, leading her 
into the drawing-room, she drew forward a chair for her. 

Miss Carruthers sat down, a thin figure, with pinched, 
rather vague features, surmounted by a brown cloth toque, 
which sprouted on both sides into tall spikes like rabbit’s 
ears. She had a habit of clutching her elbows with her 
hands while she was speaking, as though she were endeav- 
ouring to see how narrow she could make herself. 

“It’s about my brother,” she began, as Mrs. Abercrombie 
poked up the fire. “I received this letter about him, when 
I came home from the meeting, which is most disquieting — 
most disquieting.” 

She was fumbling in her pockets as she spoke, and at the 
second “disquieting” she produced the letter. 

“Your brother?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Do you mean 
James? And is he not here now? I thought that you were 
keeping his house, and that he was doing tutoring?” 

As she spoke she remembered the last time she had seen 
James, and how, though he had known her from his child- 
hood, he had cut her dead at two yards, being, she sup- 
posed, not only short-sighted, but engaged upon some ab- 
struse problem. 

“I did come, after the war began, to keep house for him,” 
said Miss Carruthers. “Both his servants had left suddenly 
because of some experiments he was doing. I don’t know 
what they were, but they declared the house was haunted. 
I have been here since then. But James has now given up 
tutoring, for last August he received a legacy, which en- 
abled him to devote himself to what he calls his Investiga- 
tion. I have said nothing to anybody about this legacy be- 
fore, for, of course, in my opinion, it should have been 
given to the war, but he says — he really is quite impossible 
at times, Mrs. Abercrombie — that as the war began all right 
without his assistance, he has no doubt it will also end all 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


37 

right without it, and that he is more concerned, anyway, 
about ending his Investigation.’ 7 

“Oh, indeed?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I thought you 
were going to say he had joined up.” 

“Oh, no,” said Miss Carruthers, distressed. 

“He is here, then, still?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“No, he’s not here either,” said Miss Carruthers, nerv- 
ously opening and shutting the letter on her lap. “He is 
now at a place called Wood End, where he says he means to 
spend the winter.” 

“Wood End?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I have never 
heard of it.” 

“Nor had I,” said Miss Carruthers, “until this last sum- 
mer. It should have been called World’s End in my opin- 
ion. But it is situated, it seems, between two woods, some- 
where near the middle of Scotland. Professor Swanwick 
told him about it. He had been there fishing once or 
twice, and had had rooms at a house called the Dove- 
cote, belonging to a woman called Mrs. Binnie, who had 
made him very comfortable. Now we all know that anyone 
who can make Professor Swanwick comfortable must know 
something about housekeeping, so when James announced 
to me quite suddenly one day that he had taken rooms at 
Mrs. Binnie’s, and was going there to get peace to finish his 
Investigation, I was glad things were no worse. James 
does do such extraordinary things sometimes. How people 
that knew him sent so many pupils to him I never could 
imagine! It must have been because of his power of at- 
tracting young men. They certainly seem all to have been 
devoted to him. But you see though he really did give 
them tastes for things, I suppose, he never gave them regu- 
lar lessons. The last pupil he had before I came, I was 
told — Mr. , I forget his name — spent all his time fish- 
ing and playing the piano and helping James with his ex- 
periments.” 

Here Miss Carruthers paused in a kind of despairing 


38 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

breathlessness to tuck a strand of hair, which had come 
loose, under her toque. 

“But to get back to Wood End,” she went on when this 
was accomplished, “I thought I would just come straight to 
you with this letter.” 

“I am glad you did,” said Mrs. Abercrombie heartily, her 
interest now thoroughly aroused. “And if I can do any- 
thing ” 

“Yes, I knew you would,” said Miss Carruthers, handing 
over the letter, and while she clutched her elbows once 
more, Mrs. Abercrombie stuck on her eye-glasses and read 
it. 

“The Dove-cote, South, 
“Wood End, 

“October, 1918. 

“Dear Madam” — the letter ran — 

“My aunt, Mrs. Binnie, has asked me to take up the pen 
to let you know about your brother, Mr. Carruthers, and to 
say that we think, both of us, that he would be better of 
some of his own people to come and look after him here. 
Not that we are complaining of Mr. Carruthers, far from it 
> — for a pleasanter-spoken or a considerater gentleman we 
could not have in our house I am sure, but it’s the way he 
goes on, madam, never remembering his meals or to put 
coals on his fire that makes us afraid to be responsible. We 
have spoken to him till we are tired, and he always says, 
yes, he will, but we find a tray that we had taken up for his 
breakfast often not touched at tea-time. Now at the be- 
ginning of winter, and this effluenza about that kills folk off 
in two days if their systems is run down, it’s not right, 
madam, and so we hopes you will be able to arrange t(5 
come yourself, madam, or to send someone you can trust, 
for all we can do we are willing to do, but we cannot get 
him to take care of his self, madam. He says he will not 
have anyone staying in his end, but there’s plenty room in 
our end, madam. Two nice bedrooms, looking south and 
West, and a sitting-room, on the same terms -as Mr. Car- 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


39 

ruthers’s, madam. The sitting-room is particler nice, and 
we have a good piano, for I have a uncle away serving in 
the army now, who was in a music-shop, and he got it sec- 
ond-hand. The place is quiet, but there’s nice walks in the 
woods, and two churches within two miles, one on each side. 
My aunt and me will attend you well, madam, for I am sure 
we will be proud to do anything for any friend of Mr. Car- 
ruthers, who as I say is the kindest of gentlemen, except to 
his own self. — Yours obediently, 

“Ellen Binnie, Jun.” 

“Well?” said Mrs. Abercrombie encouragingly, as she 
took off her glasses when she had read the letter. 

Miss Carruthers seized herself by the elbows again as for 
a supreme effort. 

“Mrs. Abercrombie,” she said, “you know I can’t go now, 
at least I’m sure I oughtn’t to. We are so short-handed, 
especially since — since you are going, Mrs. Abercrombie. 
And ever since I got the letter I have been wondering if you 
— James has such a regard for you — He would do what you 
told him. . . .” 

“Would he?” laughed Mrs. Abercrombie. “He didn’t 
when he was in pinafores. He disobeyed me flagrantly one 
afternoon that your poor mother left him to me to look 
after, and Archie told him that if he was so naughty he 
would never go to heaven, and he said he didn’t care, and 
besides he had been there — because God made him, and God 
lived in heaven, he must have been there when he was get- 
ting made.” 

“How like James!” sighed Miss Carruthers. “He has 
no regard for anything!” 

“And he is still a philosopher?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“No — he calls himself an Investigator,” said Miss Car- 
ruthers. “He says he is the possessor of unusual powers 
that may be of more value to the world than any amount 
of learning. Though his grandfather and father before him 
were both professors he has no degree — he won’t even try 


THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


40 

to take one. Oh, if he would only be a plain philosopher 
or psychologist or anything like any other person it would 
be so delightful ! ” 

“My dear, I feel sure he will be delightful as he is,” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie. “I quite look forward to renewing my 
acquaintance with him.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Abercrombie,” exclaimed Miss Carruthers, re- 
leasing her elbows and clasping her bony hands together. 
“Does that mean that you really will go to Wood End?” 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “if you like I will go 
to-morrow.” 

“Ohl” exclaimed Miss Carruthers again, starting up. 

“I will!” said Mrs. Abercrombie enthusiastically, rising 
also; “my things are nearly all packed, and the Speeds can 
attend to the other arrangements. James shall not miss 
one more meal than is necessary on my account, and as he 
has nothing to do with the war, he cannot come under 
the heading of war- work. The Dove-cote, too, what a de- 
lightful name! with peace in both syllables and a piano in 
the sitting-room, and a Mrs. Binnie, whom Professor Swan- 
wick recommends — Hurry, my dear — hurry, and send a 
wire before the office closes!” 

Miss Carruthers lost no time in following Mrs. Aber- 
crombie’s instructions. In five minutes she had vanished 
like an elderly Ariel, toque, rabbit-ears and all into the outer 
darkness. It was indeed dark that night in Rathness. 
Gloom enveloped it everywhere like a heavy, warm pall. It 
was so still that the withered leaves falling to the ground 
lay motionless where they fell. Beyond the faint glimmer 
of the few street lamps — for the coal-shortage had darkened 
the little town more than the air-raids had done — nothing 
at all was to be seen. At the end of one of the streets 
an invisible group of men, soldiers or sailors — she could not 
tell which — were jollifying together in the darkness. 

“Ye’ll tak’ the high road,” they sang lustily, “an’ I’ll 
tak’ the low road ” 


ONE DARK NIGHT 41 

Miss Carruthers, hurrying on, slipped through their midst 
without their even being aware that she had passed. 

There was darkness, too, in the fields beyond the town, 
and on the low cliffs, where only the lapping of the sea could 
be heard as it crept up softly once more among the 
boulders. Some one was creeping up to the cliff-foot also 
just at the moment when Miss Carruthers left Mrs. Aber- 
crombie’s, some one stumbling every moment, slipping 
among the sea-weed, now catching at it to keep himself 
from falling, now wading through it knee-deep. 

He had no light, only the deeper shadow of the cliffs 
against the gloomy sky to guide him. Yet, without pausing, 
he struggled desperately on till, all but breathless, he 
reached the cliff-foot. 

By good luck he had happened upon one of those steep 
but comparatively easy slopes of grass which break here 
and there into the ramparts of the rocks, and, waiting only 
for a moment to recover breath, he moved on again 
doggedly, as he could, until he had reached the top. Even 
there he did not linger, but, feeling about in the darkness 
as one who knows what he seeks for, and knows, too, that 
it is near at hand, he found the narrow track that runs 
winding with the windings of the cliff along the heights to 
Rathness. 

For a moment or two it was as though, having found it, 
he had found also the goal he sought. Sinking down upon 
it he lay with his head pillowed on his arms breathing 
deeply and half-unconscious with fatigue. Presently, how- 
ever, some shrill noise of the night, some bird in the fields 
above him, some sea-gull in the depths beneath, startled him 
from his uncomfortable repose and set him on his feet 
again, feeling his way along' the path. 

He could see now before him the few faint lights of the 
town, of which one, nearer and brighter than all the rest, 
was close down to the shore, and after what seemed to him 
a long time, the path led him quite close to this light. It 


42 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

was shining from the little square window of a cottage 
standing among the dunes, and it fell upon the approaching 
traveller as though it were a search-light. 

A strange-looking sight he was. He might have been any 
age from twenty to thirty, but he was so slight and fair that 
in the dimness he seemed but a youth. He was pale as a 
ghost too, and smeared with mud, and dripping wet from 
his capless head to his bare feet. He wore a uniform with 
gleaming metal about it, but of what colour originally, no 
man could have told. Trails of green seaweed were wisped 
round some of the buttons. He might have been a drowned 
man coming back from the very depths. 

He went straight to the door like one who had often been 
there before, and, after knocking and receiving no answer, 
he lifted the latch and entered the house. The door led 
straight into the living-room, and there, before a great fire 
of driftwood, an aged fisherman was sitting. He was dressed 
as for the sea, even to a blue-peaked cap and jersey and 
was sitting with his back to the door, a lean, weather- 
beaten but still sinewy old figure, resting his elbows on his 
knees and holding his horny brown hands outstretched to 
the blaze. He took no notice of the door opening. 

The young man stood as though wrapped in thought, 
looking silently at the old one, till presently some slight 
movement he made, or perhaps the intensity of his gaze 
caused his unconscious host to look round and become aware 
of him. 

Then at once a bewildered, half-pleased, half-scared ex- 
pression came into the withered face. 

“Ha!” he said. “It’s the Mate. It’s the Mate come 
back.” 

The stranger did not answer for a moment. It seemed as 
though he could not. Some overwhelming emotion held 
him silent. But when, as though thinking he were some 
silent apparition, the old man rose and turned towards him, 
staring — 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


43 

“Yes, it’s the Mate, Sandy,” he said. “It’s the Mate 
come back.” 

There was something strange and passionate in the ques- 
tioner’s eyes and voice, but old Sandy saw nothing of it. 

“But how is it ye have come now?” he said. “The 
boats is no’ in yet, an’ Willie’s is no’ to be in till the 
mornin’.” 

Then, looking at him more closely, he said — 

“Aha! but ye’re weet, laddie. Ye’ve been in the saut 
watter. Nae hairm has come to them oot there, has there?” 

The Mate, as he had called himself, was again silent for 
a moment as he gazed keenly, almost wildly, into the old 
eyes looking back into his. Nothing, however, could he see 
in them, for all his gazing, but a little anxiety and a great 
kindliness. 

“No, no,” he said, hoarsely at last. Then, after a mo- 
ment, he added, “It’s long since we met, Sandy, nearly five 
years. The boats have been out and in many a time since 
then. Much has happened.” 

Again he watched the old man’s face with his passionately 
keen glance. 

“Ay,” said the old man. “Much has happened as you 
say. She is gone that used to sit in that chair there. Sit 
ye doon an’ I’ll tell ye aboot her. She was aye rale fond o’ 
you. She would ha’ welcomed ye back. But she’s gone. 
They say the grief killed her.” 

“The grief?” said the Mate, almost in a whisper. “What 
grief was that, Sandy?” 

A puzzled expression came over the kindly old face. 

“Noo that ye’ve mindit me,” he said, “the laddies is no’ 
oot in the boat the nicht. The ‘Petronella’s’ laid up at the 
back o’ the hoose there, an’ they’re dead, baith Sandy an’ 
Willie. They were drooned keepin’ the Germans oot o’ the 
Forth. A damned U-boat it was that killed them.” 

He spoke quietly and dreamily, nodding a little to the 
fire. It was plain that he was not realising what he was 


44 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

saying, but merely repeating, parrot-like, something he had 
heard. 

Dismay and relief were in the Mate’s eyes as he looked 
at him. 

“He does not remember,” he said to himself, strangely 
moved. 

“Sandy,” he said aloud. “I have had an — accident, and 
my clothes are dripping like they used to be when we came 
in in the mornings sometimes. For the sake of these old 
days will you lend me a jersey and breeks and boots, all 
as old and done as possible for I may never be able to re- 
turn them?” 

“Ay, ay,” said the old man. “Is that what ye’re want- 
in’? Gang ben the room there, then, an’ ye’ll find plenty. 
She pit them in there in the press. I mind seein’ her at it 
the day afore she took badly. Sandy’s an’ Willie’s is a’ in 
there, except what’s at the bottom o’ the sea — at the bot- 
tom o’ the sea,” he repeated dreamily. 

He sat down at the fire again as he spoke, turning his 
back to the visitor and spreading his hands to the blaze 
once more. When the little oil lamp was lifted from the 
table and taken into the next room he did not move, and 
did not seem to notice what had happened, but sat on in 
the firelight whispering to himself at intervals, till, rigged 
up in blue jersey and trousers and old boots without boot- 
. laces, the Mate reappeared. 

He was paler than ever as he set the lamp upon the table 
again. In his other hand he carried in a bundle the clothes 
he had taken off. 

“Good night to you, Sandy,” he said as the old man 
still took no notice. 

At the word Sandy turned again in his chair. 

“Guid nicht, laddie,” he said. “Are ye for awa’ up the 
road again? Tell Mr. Carruthers I was askin’ for him. An’ 
I’ll tell her ye was here,” he added, “when I see her.” 

The Mate had almost reached the door, but at this on a 


ONE DARK NIGHT 45 

sudden impulse he retraced his steps across the room and 
went close up to the old man. 

“Sandy,” he said hoarsely, laying his hand on the bowed 
shoulder, “she used to say, ‘God go with you/ when we went 
away out in the night time. But — since I was here last — 
some of us have been taught to hate and loathe the very 
name of God. She said another thing sometimes, though — 
she said, ‘My love goes with you.’ Will you say that for 
her now?” 

“Ay, ay, Mate,” said Sandy, “my love goes with ye, my 
love goes with ye.” 

A slight hand grasped his suddenly, held it close for the 
space of a breath, then dropped it. A moment later the 
door had opened and closed again, and Sandy was alone 
once more. 

He was still sitting there when his son-in-law, David 
Craig, big and bearded, and in his sea-boots, as he had come 
from the boat, came in, crossed the room, and laid his hand 
on the old man’s shoulder just where the other slight one 
had lain. 

Sandy looked round, startled, but seeing only his son-in- 
law there — 

“It’s you, Davy?” he said. “I thocht it was the Mate 
again.” 

“The Mate?” said David, smiling indulgently. “Lord 
bless ye, the Mate hasna been here for near five year — nor 
wouldna need to be,” he added under his breath. “What’s 
garred ye think o’ the Mate, grandfeyther?” 

“Because he was here,” persisted the old man. “He was 
standin’ whaur you are noo, it’s no’ an hour syne.” 

“God’s sake!” exclaimed David. “Ye’re dreamin’, fey- 
ther. Ye never mean that Mr. Ascher was here? Mr. Car- 
ruthers’s boarder that was mair like oor boarder he was 
that often here near five year syne?” 

“He was here,” said the old man calmly, “an’ standin’ 
jist whaur you are noo.” 

“Staundin’ whaur I am noo?” said David incredulously. 


4 6 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Ay,” said the old man, “an’ the watter was dreepin^ aS 
him.” 

“Lord help’s,” muttered David. “Will the auld man ha’ 
seen a ghaist?” 

At the same moment, however, looking down at the floor, 
he saw a dark patch on the flag-stone near his foot, and 
stooping down he touched it. 

“Ay, it is weet sure enough,” he said, looking round the 
room awestricken. 

“Ay,” said the old man, looking dreamily at the fire, 
“an’ he askit me for a change o’ claes he was that dreepin’, 
an’ I said to gang ben the room an’ find them in the press 
whaur she pit them — a’ except the anes that’s at the bottom 
o’ the sea — the bottom o’ the sea,” he repeated in a whisper. 

The face of the younger man had flushed to a dark 
brick-red. 

“An’ did he say whaur he was bound for wi’ his change 
o’ claes?” he said slowly. “But no,” he added. “He 
wouldna say that.” 

At that moment, however, the door opened again. 

“Wouldna say what?” said a brisk little voice behind 
him, and his brisk little wife, Jess, entered, hatted and 
coated, from what she called a raid for messages to the 
town. Though the top of her hat barely reached his shoul- 
der, Jess’s tongue was more than a match for David’s, any 
day. 

“Wouldna say what?” she repeated as he did not answer. 

“Jess,” said her husband, “a queer thing’s happened, an’ 
I’m glad ye’ve come in, lass, to let’s hear what ye think 
aboot it. Ye mind yon lad Ascher that was boardit wi’ 
Mr. Carruthers an’ that we used to call the Mate — that 
cam’ sae often here in yer mither’s time to gang oot in the 
boats?” 

“Do I mind my ain name?” said Jess. “Of coorse I mind 
the Mate.” 

“Aweel he was here the nicht,” said David in a low voice. 
“He cam’ in dreepin’ weet, though it hasna rained since 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


47 

yesterday momin\ Yer feyther saw him an’ let him change 
hissel’ into claes that was Willie’s an’ Sandy’s. He’s aff wi’ 
them on him noo, awa’ wha kens whaur?” 

“Weel?” said Jess, as though expectantly. “Is that a’?” 

“Is that no’ enough?” said David. “Are ye mindin’ what 
the Mate is?” 

“An’ if he is a German,” said Jess defiantly, “as lang’s 
he’s the Mate we used to ken, what although?” 

“What although?” cried David. “She says ‘What al- 
though?’ ” 

“An’ I say as weel,” said Jess, “that there’s Germans an’ 
Germans as weel as Scotch an’ Scotch, an’ one thing I’m 
certain o’ ye’d never ken he was a German.” 

“Ay, but that’s jist what bothers me,” said David. 
“There he is let louse noo in Rathness an’ no’ a sowl, it’s 
likely, kennin’ him for what he is. I’m thinkin’, Jess, my 
lass, sorry as I am to ha’ to dae’t, that it’s my plain duty to 
stap awa’ doon-by to the coast-gairds an’ inform aboot 
him.” 

“Tach! Coast-gairds!” said Jess. “The Mate wouldna 
hairm naebody. He may ha’ been a German but he was a 
gentleman, an’ I dinna care wha hears me.” 

“Ye never ken, though,” said David uneasily. “When 
a’s said an’ dune ye ken, Jess, he is a German.” 

“Aweel there’s one thing I’m certain o’,” said Jess again, 
“he’s daein’ naething German in Rathness. But if you can 
dae sic a thing to a laddie that was as fine a laddie as ony 
laddie ye could wish to see, awa’ to yer coast-gairds an’ 
clipe on him, but it’s you then that will be the German!” 

The scorn in her voice was only equalled by the fire in 
her black eyes. 

“A laddie that my mither was sae fond o’!” she added. 
“I tell ye, wherever I saw him, if I saw him in Hell, if I 
saw him in Germany itsel’, I would ken he had got there by 
some mishappenin’!” 

“Ye’re an awfu’ woman,” said David, scratching his head 


48 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

in perplexity, “an’ I daursay ye’re richt, I was fond o’ the 
laddie mysel’. But what I would like to ken ” 

“An’ what I would like to ken,” broke in Jess sharply, 
“is when ye’re gaun tae staund oot o’ my road an’ let me 
get the supper ready.” 

She made the supper an extra good one, and after it was 
over kept David busy about the house until it was time for 
him to go to bed that he might be ready for the lobster-pots 
in the early morning. That he was still dissatisfied as to 
the course of action he was pursuing, however, was evident 
from the remarks he made from time to time during the 
evening, now to himself, grumbling them into his beard, 
now to Jess, who made no reply to them. 

After old Sandy and he had gone to bed, however, Jess 
remained, as she often did, doing some mending in the 
kitchen, and, as she mended, she thought of nothing but the 
Mate, and of why he had come to them, and of what he was 
doing. Suddenly, as she paused to thread her needle, a 
thought struck her. 

“If it was him,” she said to herself, “he’d have left some- 
thing behind him. He never changed hissel’ here afore 
without leavin’ something.” 

But still she went on mending. 

At last, however, when snores from the box-bed where 
Sandy slept, and from the upstairs loft where David had 
preceded her, announced that for all practical purposes she 
was alone in the house, she slipped off her thimble, rose 
softly from her seat, and taking up the lamp from the table 
went into the inner room. 

It was the best room of the house, half parlour and half 
bedroom, and had an austere and gloomy look to Jess be- 
cause of its gloomy associations, for here the dead of the 
family who had had the luck to die ashore had been laid 
out, and here their funeral sendees had for generations 
been held. On the walls, amid other more highly-coloured 
and lightsome adornments, photographs of tombs and In 
Memoriam verses, framed in black, were conspicuous. 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


49 

Jess was not concerned that night with any of these, 
however. Lamp in hand she went straight to the cupboard 
to which Sandy had directed Ascher, and opening it wide 
she looked it over carefully. Then turning she examined 
the floor. Dark stains on the carpet showed where the 
Mate’s wet things had been flung, but none remained to show 
of what nature they had been. So at least she thought at 
first, but just as she was about to return to her mending her 
quick eye caught sight of a corner of cloth sticking out from 
under the valence of the bed. 

She kneeled down beside it without touching it, and, after 
staring at it fascinated for a moment, she rose and going 
back to the kitchen brought the tongs from the fire-place. 
With these she gripped the protruding corner and dragged 
a waistcoat from its hiding-place. It was torn and dis- 
coloured to a degree, but she could see at a glance that it 
was part of a uniform — a uniform unlike any she had ever 
seen. With the tongs she lifted it, then, the lamp in one 
hand and the tongs in the other, she returned to the kitchen, 
and moving swiftly to the fire, now a glow of red cinders, 
she thrust her discovery deep into the heart of it. 

This, it is probable, would have been the last of the Mate 
so far as the house of Sandy was concerned, if it had not 
been for Janet Craig — Big Janet — David’s sister. Though 
she did not look like it she was what is called a Temporary, 
and at the moment she was filling the post of cook at the 
Carruthers’ house. 

On that same night, because it was the housemaid’s night 
out, she was sitting all alone in her kitchen. Not being so 
fond of any society as her own, she was thoroughly enjoying 
her solitude and having the fire to herself, when, to her dis- 
gust, she was disturbed by the front-door bell ringing. 

Though still comparatively early it was dark outside and 
she spent some time in lighting the stump of candle in the 
lantern which was now always carried to the door to take 
the place of the hall gas. She did not hurry, not seeing, as 


50 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

she said to herself, why she should, and, before she had left 
the kitchen, the bell rang again, urgently, almost violently, 
which put her back up. 

Now Big Janet’s back when up, which it very often was, 
as many a mistress knew well, was very formidable. It 
had been known to interfere with and upset the most care- 
fully arranged plans, to impair for days at a time the com- 
fort of entire households. It was the secret force, though its 
owner did not know it, which had levered James Carruthers 
out of Rathness. 

“Her sense of injury is so continuous, so all-pervasive, 
and so penetrating,” he had complained, “that really, Clara, 
I am unable to work properly anywhere within the radius of 
it.” 

When he rang then for the second time before Big Janet 
was ready to attend to him, the Mate, for it was none 
other, set much more in motion than the bell. He was all 
unaware of this, however, when the door opened and Big 
Janet stood before him, herself almost invisible among the 
shadows in the passage, but throwing the light of the lantern 
well upon him. He was unaware, too, that the moment she 
saw him she recognised him, in spite of, perhaps because of, 
the fisherman’s garb he was wearing, for the last time she 
had set eyes upon him had been down at old Sandy’s house, 
in the old pre-war days when he had been as one of them. 
She said nothing of this, however, being ever disinclined to 
communicate her thoughts, however interesting they might 
be, to anybody. All she did was to hold the lantern a little 
lower so that her own large square- jawed countenance was 
more in shadow. 

“Is Mr. Carruthers in?” said the Mate, or, to call him by 
his real name, Martin Ascher. 

“No, he’s not in,” said Big Janet, with grim and un- 
concealed satisfaction. 

“Can you tell me when he will be in?” 

“No,” said Big Janet. 

“Then is Miss Carruthers in?” 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


5 11 


“No.” 

“Can you tell me when she will be in?” 

“No.” 

There was a moment’s pause and all around was so still 
that a leaf from a tree near by could be heard dropping 
upon the pavement. 

“I have come a long way,” said Martin, and there was a 
sound of deadly weariness in his voice. “I am very anxious 
to see Mr. Carruthers. I should like to come in and wait 
for him if I may.” 

The eyes looking out of the darkness behind the lantern 
gleamed and hardened. 

“I’m sorry,” said Big Janet. “I can’t allow all and sun- 
dry into the house, after dark, in war-time.” 

There was a moment’s pause again before Martin an- 
swered. 

“Perhaps you will be good enough,” he said then, stiffly, 
though his voice was weak with exhaustion, “to direct me 
to where Mr. Carruthers is at present?” 

“Sorry it’s against orders,” said Big Janet. 

Some wandering spirit of compunction, however, passing 
by just then, must have moved her. 

“I’ll tell ye where Miss Carruthers is, though,” she said. 
“She’s round at 3 Canmore Place — Mrs. Abercrombie’s.” 

If he had not been so tired the traveller would have no- 
ticed that she gave him no further directions as to how to 
find Canmore Place, as would have been natural to a 
stranger, especially on such a night. He noticed nothing, 
however. 

“Thank you,” he said shortly, and turning on his heel he 
set forth again into the heavy darkness. 

Big Janet watched him till he disappeared, limping in his 
old boots, round the corner. Then shutting the door she 
went back to her kitchen again and taking writing-materials 
from a drawer in the dresser she sat down near the lamp to 
write a letter. 

It was a very short letter when it was done, but like 


52 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Sydney Smith she took a long time to compose it, biting the 
end of her pen-holder occasionally, and cogitating deeply 
after each brief sentence. 

At last, however, it was finished. 

The housemaid, returning from her night out, found her 
dropping it into the pillar-box at the end of the street. 

“Hullo, Janet!” she said jocosely, being still in her night- 
out mood. “Is’t a love-letter?” 

“It’s no’ to ony sweetheart o’ yours onyway,” retorted 
Big Janet, and no more was said about it. 

Miss Carruthers had hardly had time to cross the square 
before Mrs. Abercrombie was on her way to finish her pack- 
ing, and half an hour later she was hard at work in her room 
upstairs when once more the front-door bell rang noisily. 

“Bother!” she muttered, for she was now all anxiety to 
be ready, and had found that the preparations might take 
longer than she had thought they would. Reflecting, how- 
ever, that it might be Miss Carruthers come back she took 
up one of the candles on her dressing-table and proceeded 
once more to the entrance-hall. 

“Well?” she said, as she opened the door, so sure was 
she, somehow, of seeing Miss Carruthers. 

No Miss Carruthers was there, however, but a slight boy- 
ish-looking figure clad in a jersey a size too big for him and 
rough weather-stained blue trousers. He was standing, 
pale as death, on the steps outside, his fair hair giving him 
a ghostly aspect, and, though he held himself erect, she 
could see that he was trembling, and that one hand was 
resting, as though for support, on the railing beside him. 

“I am sorry,” he said, “to trouble you so late, but I was 
told I might find Miss Carruthers here.” 

As he spoke — unshaven, smeared with mud as his face 
was, altered, ravaged, an indefinable remembrance came to 
Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“I am sure I have seen you before,” she said impulsively 
and irrelevantly as was her custom. 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


53 


A faint flush rose in the sunken cheeks. 

“Very possibly,” was the answer, “though you may never 
have spoken to me. Nor do I know Miss Carruthers, but 
her brother was my tutor here for some time before Miss 
Carruthers came to stay with him, and it is really Mr. Car- 
ruthers that I want to see, urgently, to-night if possible. 
The servant at the house would give me no information, 
except that Miss Carruthers was probably ” 

Here the steady voice trailed off into silence and the 
speaker swayed where he stood. 

“You are very tired,” said Mrs. Abercrombie suddenly. 
'‘Come in and sit down for a moment while I tell you about 
it. Miss Carruthers has just gone.” 

“Just gone?” he echoed, and there was a note of despair 
in his voice. He came into the hall, however, and sank 
down on the nearest chair. 

“Thank you,” he said, smiling faintly at Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie’s concerned face. “It is good of you, and I am tired.” 

“Now I know where I have seen you!” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie suddenly again. “Though I don’t always remem- 
ber faces I was sure I had seen yours. But not here — it 
was in London at a concert before the war — when Ysaye 
played the Cesar Franck Sonata with Pugno. Do you re- 
member?” 

“Do I not remember?” exclaimed Ascher, sitting up. 
“And do you mean to say that you were there too?” 

“Was I not?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, seating herself on 
a chair opposite and holding her candle recklessly askew. 
“And your delight in the Cesar Franck was better even than 
Ysaye. I had not enjoyed a concert for many years as I 
did that concert, and that was because of you, and the 
memories you brought back to me of one who was like you. 
So you see I owe you something. I have thought of you 
often since. Will you tell me your name? You know, I 
suppose, that I am Mrs. Abercrombie?” 

“I guessed it,” he said, smiling. Then suddenly grave 
again, he said, “My name is Ascher. Martin Ascher.” 


54 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“And you have come a long way to-night?” she said 
gently. 

At this, to her surprise and dismay, his eyes filled with 
tears and his lips worked convulsively for a moment before 
he controlled them sufficiently to answer. 

“A long way,” he said at last. “In fact,” he paused 
again to steady his voice, “I was cast ashore some hours ago 
at the foot of the cliffs — that’s why I am in this dress. I 
changed at a fisherman’s house.” 

Before he had finished speaking Mrs. Abercrombie was 
on her feet. 

“You were cast ashore?” she exclaimed. “You have been 
nearly drowned! And I sit here talking to you of con- 
certs!” 

“Oh, it’s — it’s all right,” he said, rising too and half- 
laughing at the energy of her distress. “Only — can you tell 
me where Mr. Carruthers is?” 

“Yes I can,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “He is not in 
Rathness just now. He is at a place called Wood End, 
somewhere near the middle of Scotland.” 

The half smile died from the face of Ascher while he 
reddened slowly and then paled to the very lips. 

“Oh, then — I had better go,” he said. “Good night and 
thank you again, Mrs. Abercrombie.” 

He turned towards the door, but in a moment Mrs. 
Abercrombie had placed herself squarely between it and 
him. 

“Not one step do you go,” she said, “at least until you’ 
have rested. Are you forgetting that we are old friends, 
that it is four years and more since Cesar Franck and Ysaye 
introduced us? Where would you go, besides, on this dark 
night, tired out as you are? You don’t know Miss Car- 
ruthers, you say? Well I do, and though she is an excellent 
woman, she is at present completely in the hands of Janet 
— Big Janet — do you know her?” 

“No — unless it is the woman who turned me away from 


ONE DARK NIGHT 55 

the door,” said Ascher, smiling a little again in spite of 
everything. 

“That would be her. It’s just like her. Well now — • 
were you thinking of going back to her?” 

“No,” said Ascher, “but ” 

“Is there anywhere else where you would be sure of a 
welcome?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

He paused for a moment before replying, and Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, as her manner was, when she was what Archibald 
had been wont to call en train, answered herself for him. 

“No,” she said. “I am sure there is not, and — pardon 
me — have you any money?” 

He flushed again suddenly up to the roots of his fair hair. 

“No,” he said. “You see I had intended ” 

“You had intended to ask Mr. Carruthers for the loan of 
some,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “and so you shall — if you 
will only be guided by me. Strange to say, I am going to 
this very place — Wood End — where he is staying just now — 
to-morrow. You will rest here to-night and go with me, 
and when we get there Mr. Carruthers — whom I have known 
since his pinafore days — will pay me back and arrange 
everything for you.” 

His face changed once more, and she looked away hastily, 
setting down her candle, and pretending to be busy with the 
closing of the door. She was already turning the key in the 
lock when she felt his hand on her arm. 

“Stop,” he said hoarsely. “I do not know how to thank 
you — but, before you do this, you should know ” 

“I know enough,” she interrupted him, patting the cold 
hand on her sleeve with her other hand, and looking up, 
with tears in her own eyes, at his moved face. “I know that 
you have been in trouble — hellish trouble of some kind — 
that does not bear speaking about, or even thinking of, yet. 
Some day you will tell me. But now come in to the fire. 
It’s the only one in the house, so we can make it a good 
one.” 

She passed before him into the drawing-room and, kneel- 


56 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

ing down on the hearth-rug, began recklessly piling on coal. 

“Come and sit down,” she commanded, turning where 
she kneeled. For he was standing motionless and silent 
upon the threshold. Then all at once he burst out passion- 
ately like a child — 

“I don’t know what to do — I don’t know what to do. . . . 
You are too good — It is all too good. ... I cannot 
bear . . .” 

Here he broke off suddenly, and covering his face with 
his hands, fell to bitter, silent weeping. 

Without another word she rose and, going to him, led him 
unresistingly by the arm to her own low chair, and leaving 
him bent double there in an agony of distress, she went out 
quietly, closing the door behind her. 

When she returned after a considerable interval during 
which she had been wrestling with supper-making down- 
stairs, he had risen and was standing looking at the portrait 
of Archibald over the piano. 

“Ah — you are making acquaintance with him too,” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie, as he hastened forward to meet her, “so 
you should, so you should. It was of him you reminded 
me — that time at the concert. He was my husband.” 

She busied herself preparing the supper-table then, her 
guest helping her, it occurred to her, just as though it had 
been one of her own nephews. And with this thought an- 
other came. 

“Would you like a wash and a change?” she said. “I 
have plenty of things upstairs.” 

The wash he accepted with alacrity, but was strangely 
reluctant about the change. She would take no denial, 
however. Before very long he was seated at the supper- 
table attired in a tweed suit of Reggie’s, and, as his hostess 
said, like another being. 

And the portrait, it seemed to her, looked down upon 
him kindly, yet with the old glimmer of amusement at the 
corners of the mouth. It seemed too, as the original would 


ONE DARK NIGHT 


57 

have done, to have fascinated the guest. He kept looking 
up at it curiously as he ate and drank. 

“Did he play?” he said at last, nodding slightly towards 
the piano, a beautiful Bechstein concert grand. 

“Ah, my dear ” said Mrs. Abercrombie. That was all. 

Then she looked away at the fire in silence. 

Ascher watched her for a few moments in silence also. 
Then — 

“Would you — may I play to you afterwards?” he said 
diffidently. 

Mrs. Abercrombie almost leaped round in her chair. 

“Rather!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “As soon as 
• — and for as long as you want to.” 

She rejoiced at the proposal, welcoming the playing as a 
relief to the mysterious grief that seemed to be lying heavily 
still, in spite of all her efforts, upon her spirit as well as his. 

“Rather!” she said again. 

Without waiting for more, he rose and went to the piano. 
Then, opening it, he sat down and struck a few preluding 
chords. 

“Ah, this is good!” said Mrs. Abercrombie, settling her- 
self then and there to listen, for long experience of Archi- 
bald’s moods and fancies had given her the delightful fac- 
ulty of being ready at any time for anything, without de- 
lays or things to do first. 

“Go on,” she said. “Go on for as long as you like.” 

She was glad to hear that he laughed a little then—? 
softly — to himself. Then he began playing. 


CHAPTER in 


IN WHICH SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF THE TRANSIT OF MRS. 
ABERCROMBIE IN THE COMPANY OF AN ENCHANTER, AND 
OF WHAT BEFEL THEM ON THEIR WAY TO WOOD END 

Some time in the small hours of the next morning Ascher, 
with the wild tender defiant tragedy of “In der Nacht,” 
brought his programme to a close. 

The fire had gone out. Mrs. Abercrombie sat absorbed. 

“Are you not tired?” he said, smiling. “Do you know 
what the time is?” 

“No,” she said dreamily. “I don’t. I only know that 
you have given me the most exquisite treat, that you are an 
enchanter who has been conjuring up before me old days, 
old scenes, old ’enthusiasms, old loves, old griefs. . . 

She started up. 

“But you must be tired!” she added. “I am a selfish 
brute. I had no idea it had been so long. See, I will light 
your candle at once. Ah! You must be very tired! How 
can I thank you? I can never thank you enough.” 

He did, indeed, look very tired. With the ceasing of the 
music all virtue seemed to have gone out of him, and the 
shadow to have closed down upon him again. Yet he strove 
to speak cheerfully. 

“You mustn’t thank me,” he said. “It is I who should 
thank you for listening. I couldn’t have played to-night at 
all — not one note — if it hadn’t been for you.” 

“Yes, I can listen,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Archie — 
my husband — always said that. He, too, was very depend- 
ent upon his listeners.” 

He was silent, and she was moving away to a side-table, 

58 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 59 

where there were biscuits and drinks, when suddenly he 
burst out — 

“It is you who are the enchantress,” he half sobbed, 
“you draw the very soul out of a man! Ah — I must not 
wait — I must tell you ” 

She looked round hastily. 

His face was ghastly, his eyes were wild. 

“No, no!” she exclaimed, as though to a frightened child. 
“Not now. You mustn’t tell me now. What! After all 
these exquisite things — that Ravel, that Schumann — that 
Beethoven — I tell you I will not listen now, to anything 
that makes you look like that.” 

“But you must,” he urged passionately, “or how can I 
stay on here? I am not what you think me. . . .” 

“You are l” she contradicted him flatly. “I am no artist 
myself, but I know an artist when I hear one. And — what- 
ever else you may be — you are an artist of the first rank, 
and as such I welcome you. Come — have some biscuits and 
this whiskey. I am a blooming fool to have let you get so 
over-wrought. Some day you may tell me whatever you 
like about yourself. For to-night, all that I will hear of 
allowing you to do, is to go immediately to bed.” 

After she had dismissed him thus, however, she did not 
go to bed herself. His music, as Archie’s had always done 
in the old times, had excited her and banished sleep. She 
moved softly about the house, candle in hand, finishing her 
preparations for the morrow, and only retired to her room 
at the dawning because in another hour the Speed family 
would be upon her. 

She went to bed then, but still she did not sleep. Ascher’s 
ravaged face haunted her, his wild eyes, his passionate 
speech. 

“Whatever can he have done?” she said to herself, “for 
there can be nothing so dreadful about what he is. If I 
know an artist when I hear him, I know a gentleman when 
I see him. He is all right in that respect. It must be some- 


6o THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


thing he has done. Well in war-time anything can happen. 
Perhaps it is shock he is suffering from. . . 

A sudden chill came over her at this thought. 

“They go mad sometimes,” she said to herself. 

Then she thought of James Carruthers and recovered 
again. 

To-morrow — nay, that very day, she would be handing 
him over to James. 

It must be admitted that when they arrived upon the 
scene the Speeds as a family were exemplary in their dis- 
cretion. They did not so much as turn a hair when told 
that Mrs. Abercrombie had made up her mind to leave that 
day, and that a strange young gentleman, who had arrived 
the night before, and was now asleep in the captain’s room, 
and on no account to be disturbed till it was absolutely 
necessary, was going to travel with her. Nor did they 
blench, at least they made no audible remark, when, on the 
strange young gentleman at last descending to breakfast, 
they found that he had not brought a particle of luggage 
with him except an old pair of boots without laces and a 
still older blue jersey and trousers. All they did — it was 
Mrs. Speed and Devina who were doing the bedroom — was 
to look at each other gravely for a moment and shake their 
heads in silence. Then — for Mr. Speed had been a valet, 
and they knew how to do it — they laid the garments out, 
like evening clothes, ironically on the bed. 

Their former wearer, however, had not the opportunity of 
seeing them thus, for Mrs. Abercrombie declared when he 
spoke of them that she would not consent to his putting 
them on again. Reggie’s suit was an old one, it had been 
left to her to give away, and if he — Ascher — was to travel 
with her to Wood End he must travel as befitted him and 
her. Devina was ordered to see that the fisherman’s clothes 
were returned to the cottage where they belonged. 

That night, accordingly, Devina, after she had finished 
her work for the day at 3 Canmore Place, took the jersey, 
the trousers, and the boots all down to Sandy’s cottage. 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 61 

Only old Sandy was there when she went in. He was 
sitting with his back to the door and muttering to the fire 
as usual. 

“He’s speakin’ in to hisseF,” said Devina to herself, awe- 
stricken, as she remembered that it was said in the town 
that old Sandy’s mind was going. 

For the credit of the Speeds, whose aim and object it 
was to keep themselves to themselves, it was as well that 
Jess was out. Devina otherwise could not have resisted the 
temptation to gossip, natural, perhaps, under the circum- 
stances. 

As it was, however, her fear of the old man’s turning 
round caused her simply to lay her bundle on the table and 
retire. 

“They’ll know they’ve got them anyway,” she said to 
herself. 

And indeed that was all that David and Jess, for all their 
wondering and debating afterwards, ever did know. 

This happened, however, after Mrs. Abercrombie and all 
her luggage and her protege had left Rathness and were 
trundling towards Wood End, in what the porter had called 
a “Stopping train,” and which indeed seemed, as Mrs. 
Abercrombie said, to be better at stopping than at going. 

Little Mrs. Jardine came to see her off at the station. 

“Who is the cavalier?” she said, wondering, as Martin 
Ascher approached, asked for directions about the tickets, 
and then went off to get them. 

“A friend of mine who is suffering from war-shock,” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie, “and is going with me to Wood End to 
visit Mr. Carruthers.” 

“Ah — I see — that occult man,” said Mrs. Jardine, and 
she glanced furtively again at Martin when he reappeared. 

Over Reggie’s tweeds he was wearing an old overcoat, 
rather long and rather light in colour, which had once been 
Archibald’s, also a wide-awake hat of the same period. His 
thin face, though as pale as ever, looked serener than it had 


62 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


yet done. A strange insouciance, almost nonchalance, which 
was undoubtedly the result of the fatigues of the night 
before, had possession of him that afternoon. He felt light- 
headed as though he were in a dream, or under the influence 
of an opiate. Nothing seemed to matter very much. All 
his surroundings seemed unreal, and he himself the most 
unreal of all. Since the morning it seemed to him that he 
had been swept along in the flood of Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
kindness — helplessly — in spite of himself. At that moment 
he was merely wondering what would happen next to him. 

What did happen was that he was introduced to Mrs. 
Jardine. 

“My friend Mr. Ascher — Mrs. Jardine,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie genially. “And I wish you could hear him play 
Debussy and Ravel.” 

“Indeed?” said Mrs. Jardine, who was herself something 
of a musician. “Then you play, Mr. Ascher?” 

“Play!” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “I just wish you 
could hear him. He is a pianist — an artist — an artist of the 
first rank. I have not heard such playing — in a room, I 
mean — since the old days. He is an enchanter.” 

“Then it’s too bad of you to take him away from Rath- 
ness,” laughed Mrs. Jardine. “Where did you study, Mr. 
Ascher?” 

“In Germany — in Berlin,” he answered, watching her 
face. 

“Ah,” sighed Mrs. Jardine, “aren’t you glad you’ve been 
there? For now that they have all become such brutes, of 
course we never can go back again.” 

“Are they all such brutes?” he said. 

“My dear Mr. Ascher!” exclaimed the little lady. “Can 
anyone doubt it? The whole people has deteriorated. They 
are a nation of brutes. Don’t you think so too, Mrs. Aber- 
crombie?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I think that to call them 
so is to insult the lower animals.” 

Mrs. Jardine laughed. 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 63 

“You always go one better, Mrs. A.,” she said, “but 
wherever has Mr. Ascher gone to?” 

They saw him presently again among the luggage. 

“I am glad you are to have him with you,” said Mrs. 
Jardine. “He seems to be a useful sort of enchanter, and 
you know, my dear, you are so absent-minded at times. 
I quite wondered how you would manage, travelling without 
Elizabeth.” 

“Elizabeth!” said Mrs. Abercrombie scornfully. “I have 
long since learned to do without her.” 

And the train coming in just at that moment made it 
impossible for Mrs. Jardine to contradict her. 

She was preoccupied, however, as she mounted into the 
train, her good-byes were rather perfunctory, and no sooner 
were they alone in the carriage, and really started on their 
journey, than she turned to her companion. 

“Why did you run away just now?” she said, “when we 
were talking about the Germans? Are you a Pro-German?” 

“What exactly is meant by that?” he said. 

“Don’t you know?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“Tell me exactly,” he said again. 

“By Pro-German,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “is meant a 
person who is ready to condone things, to minimise the 
awfulness of the stain which has come upon civilisation by 
means of the German nation, who believes that men and 
women who set at naught every law not only of God but of 
man, are worthy of the slightest consideration, and who 
would refrain from sweeping off the face of the earth the 
whole cursed crew down to the very last man, woman, and 
child of them.” 

“Then they are all the same?” said Ascher, very pale. 
“There are no exceptions?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “for if there were, they 
would leave Germany now if they had not already done so.” 

“What about patriotism,” said Ascher. “What about 
loyalty?” 


64 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Patriotism!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. “Patriotism for 
a mass of putrefaction!” 

“Then,” said Ascher quietly, but with white lips, “only 
a country, that is always able to reward it, is worthy, you 
think, of loyalty?” 

He laughed a little short laugh. 

“Let’s change the subject,” he said. “Look how very 
lovely those trees are.” 

But Mrs. Abercrombie never so much as glanced at the 
trees. 

“I shall certainly not change the subject,” she said, with 
a glinting in her eyes, a lifting of her chin, and a tightening 
of the lips, that had come down to her from fighting ances- 
tors. “I shall certainly not change the subject until I have 
your answer to my question.” 

“You shall have it, then, Mrs. Abercrombie,” said Ascher 
at once, turning away again from the window and fixing his 
sad eyes upon her face. “I am not a Pro-German. I think 
all that you think about the just punishment which Ger- 
many has brought upon herself by heaped-up sins of omis- 
sion and commission. I think she cannot escape it, and 
that, for the sake of the world at large, for the sake of 
honour and purity, for the sake of what in former times she 
herself called the true, the beautiful, the good, she must be 
cast out, separated, devoted to utter destruction. And” — 
he paused for a moment, smiling wanly, strangely at her — 
“since it is impossible to make distinctions — if there are any 
of her sons and daughters who do not deserve the disgrace 
and the destruction — why then — there they are — and so 
much the worse for them.” 

“Besides,” he went on after a moment as Mrs. Aber- 
crombie was still silent, “if there are any such, they will not 
want to desert now. There can be no escape for them. 
.They cannot stampede like rats. They must go down with 
the sinking ship. It is the last thing left them to do for 
their own honour.” 

The silence when he had ceased to speak seemed to quiver 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 65 

with some strong emotion, latent, hidden, just beneath the 
surface of things. 

Mrs. Abercrombie vaguely, uncomfortably conscious of 
this, hastened to end it. 

“You put it very well,” she said, looking meditatively out 
of the window at the long bare autumn fields stretching 
away towards the woodlands. “I had not thought of it 
quite in that way before, and that about patriotism too — 
though I was angry with you at the moment — that was 
good. It reminds me of a woman I knew once — with a 
frightful husband, who did everything to her but kill her. 
Her whole life was a misery and a degradation and growing 
worse every day. ‘Why don’t you leave him?’ I said to her 
once. ‘No one would blame you, every one would think you 
did well to go.’ ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see that my 
loyalty is the only thing I have left to me unblemished?’ ” 

She was silent for a moment as the train trundled on its 
way. 

“Poor exceptions!” she murmured after a little. 

“Yes — poor brutes,” he rejoined, “for of course they will 
be thought brutes — or no — to think them so would be to 
insult the lower animals.” 

They laughed together. Then Mrs. Abercrombie said — 

“Were you thinking of the exceptions then? Was it that 
speech of mine that made you run away at the railway sta- 
tion?” 

“No,” he said, “it was that other woman laughing at it.” 

“But you laughed yourself just now,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, wondering. 

“That was different,” he said gravely. “Now do let us 
change the subject.” 

They talked then about the splendours of the autumn 
woods, and Mrs. Abercrombie grieved that now she was see- 
ing them for the first time that year. 

“To think that while all the pageant of spring and sum- 
mer was going on I was burrowing in Rathness!” she 


66 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


mourned. “They all seem to be reproaching me. ‘You 
have come late/ they say. ‘We have waited long.’ ” 

“Yes, but just because of that, perhaps you see them now 
the more vividly,” he returned. “If the war has given us 
nothing else for all it has taken from us it has given us that 
— that vivid pleasure in the intervals. Just as a flash of 
lightning that kills a man may have shown him wonderful 
effects of light first, that if he had lived to be a hundred 
and one, he would never have seen otherwise.” 

“And would have been happier without seeing,” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie with a little shiver, and again with the 
sense strong upon her of something latent and uncanny. 
Again, therefore, she changed the subject, and from the trees 
they passed to descriptive music and were discussing the 
score of “Pelleas and Melisande,” and the wind effects in it, 
when once more the train stopped. 

It was a larger station than they had yet passed. There 
were many people on the platform, and there was a hubbub 
of noise. No one, however, seemed to be going to disturb 
them, and they were continuing their talk when the door 
opened and a handsome young country-woman, with a large 
and heavily-shawled baby in her arms, began, with many 
exhortations, to entrain a large family of small children. 

Conversation was at an end, Mrs. Abercrombie in two 
minutes had lifted the youngest walking child on to her 
knee, and Ascher at the other end of the carriage was as- 
sisting the eldest son, a careworn boy of twelve, answering 
to the name of Geordie, to hoist and haul in several bundles 
and all his remaining brothers and sisters. 

“Are ye a’ richt, Mistress Forgan?” called a porter from 
the platform as he held the door open and looked round 
with experienced eye for stragglers. 

“A’ richt, thenk ye,” replied Mrs. Forgan cheerfully, 
adding under her breath, “at least I hope so.” 

A glance round reassured her, and rolling up the baby 
more tightly, if that were possible, in the shawl, she sub- 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 67 

sided with a sigh of relief on to the seat beside Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. 

She was plainly but neatly dressed for the most part, but 
she had an indescribably radiant and festive effect, and a 
touch of gaudiness about her accessories that seemed to 
accentuate her good looks. Everything she had on suited 
her, from her rakish green feather to her fuchsia-coloured 
scarf. 

“Eh, mercy, I’m warm!” she said confidingly to Mrs. 
Abercrombie, as she proceeded to wipe her perspiring face. 
“It’s an awfu’ opery,” she added, “traivellin’ wi’ sae mony.” 

“Yes, I almost wonder you attempt it,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, smiling as she patted the fat legs of her charge to 
keep him from violently kicking her black skirt with his 
muddy boots. 

“But I suppose,” she added sympathetically, “it has to 
be done sometimes.” 

“That’s so,” assented Mrs. Forgan emphatically. “When 
ye’re bein’ driven proper daft wi’ dullness an’ loneliness — 1 
it has to be done. That’s so.” 

“Dullness and loneliness,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, 
amazed. 

“Ay,” said Mrs. Forgan. “Ye wouldna think, would ye 
— to look at me — that I was either dull or lonely wi’ sae 
mony bairns? But mind ye,” she went on, rocking the baby 
who had become slightly restive gently to and fro, “if yer 
man was at the front an’ if you lived in a wee hoose miles 
frae onywhere in the middle 0’ trees and bare fields wi’ jist 
bairns an’ never a sowl like yersel’ to speak till, ye’d maybe 
be dull yersel’.” 

“I’m sure I would,” said Mrs. Abercrombie warmly. “Tell 
me more about it. So you live right in the country, do 
you?” 

“Ay, at Cock-ma-lone,” said Mrs. Forgan. “An’ it’s a 
bonny wee place,” she went on hastily as though in order to 
efface any bad impression, “wi’ a fine wee gairden, an’ 
it’s no’ awfu’ far frae folk either. The nearest neebours at 


68 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

the cot-hooses, when I was no’ weel, was rale kindly. But 
— maybe ye’ll ha’ seen it yerseP,” she went on — “they’ll 
come to ye when ye’re no’ weel, but — Lord kens why it is — 
when ye’re weel they dinna bother theirsels. An’ the funny 
thing is that it’s when ye’re weel that ye want them maist 
whiles, mair than when ye’re no’ weel an’ canna be bothered 
wi’ their clashes.” 

Here she gathered the baby up more closely. 

“Onyway,” she went on, “it’s eerie whiles when yer man 
is in the trenches. He was aye sic a cheery sowl, an* 
when he’s playin’ wi’ the bairns, whiles, he’s that comic ye 
near end yersel’ wi’ lauchin’ at him. Dash he is by name — - 
Dash Forgan — an’ Dash he is by natur’, easy pit in a rage 
an’ easy quietened. But he’s the kind o’ man ye jist miss 
terrible.” 

“I am sure he is,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, her brown eyes 
glistening. “And is he in the trenches now?” 

“Weel, no’ exac’ly in them,” said Mrs. Forgan. “He’s a 
transport-driver. He’s rare wi’ horses, an’ he’s no’ supposed 
to kill onybody. But, mind you, if a German was to coun- 
ter him in ane o’ his rages, I wouldna answer for him ! ” 

“Oh, we’re all like that,” laughed Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“Aren’t we?” she appealed over the intervening baby to 
Ascher. But Ascher, who seemed to be half-buried in in- 
fants of both sexes and all sizes, did not hear her. 

Mrs. Forgan regarded her other travelling companion ad- 
miringly. 

“He’s rale hamely wi’ bairns,” she said; “is he a son o’ 
yours?” 

Then without waiting for an answer, for the baby had 
begun wriggling again — 

“He’ll mak’ a fine feyther onyway,” she added, “when he 
gets a wife o’ his ain.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie glanced again at the subject of this 
aside, and was almost certain that he had heard it, though 
he still took no notice. 

Geordie was dispensing biscuits from a bag, and justice 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 69 

at the same time, and Ascher was helping him. Afterwards 
she remembered him thus in the midst of the rosy children. 

“Ay,” said Mrs. Forgan again when the baby had settled 
once more, “that’s what Dash is, an’ whiles the hoose is 
hardly to be tholed withoot him. An’ yesterday it was that 
dull an’ muggy an’ dark I was fair eerie, an’ last nicht when 
Geordie an’ Mary cam’ hame frae the schule — ‘Geordie,’ 
says I. Tm gaun tae ha’ a break-oot the morn.’ For it 
was Setturday ye ken, an’ the schule would be closed. ‘Are 
ye, Mither?’ says he, for he is a rale sensible crater. An’ we 
made it a’ up on the nail, an’ d’ye ken whaur we’ve been 
the day?” 

“To the town,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “to look at the 
shops perhaps?” 

“No, to the Pieters,” said Mrs. Forgan, “an’, by jing, it’s 
been a graund day!” 

“I’m so glad you enjoyed it!” said Mrs. Abercrombie 
heartily, in spite of herself and of harangues she had de- 
livered at mothers’ meetings against taking young children 
to picture-houses. She had been right she knew, the rea- 
sons against it were still there, but somehow just then the 
glamour of Mrs. Forgan’s delight in her “Break-oot” ob- 
scured them. 

“Eh, it’s been splendid!” Mrs. Forgan went on again 
presently as though she were unable to keep silent. 

“Is this the first time you have been?” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. 

“Ay,” said Mrs. Forgan. “It was the first time. Ye see 
what wi’ sae mony bairns an’ sae little money we never 
could gang anywhere afore the war — Dash an’ me. But 
we’re rich noo, for a wee while onyway. Them that has the 
maist bairns is the richest in war-time.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie was silent, adjusting herself to this 
new point of view. 

So the war, which to most had been the abomination of 
desolation, was looked upon by some at least in the light of 
a deliverance. The country-side which she had envied her 


7 o THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

had been a prison-house to Mrs. Forgan, even with her 
children round her, though she was evidently a loving 
mother. She had little time for cogitation, however, before 
Mrs. Forgan began again. 

“There was a lassie in the Pieter,” she said, “the longest 
Pieter. Eh, she was a treat! Twa men was efter her, a 
young ane wi’ nae money,, ye ken, and an auld rich ane. 
. . . Noo, Dash, keep yer feet still an’ dinna spile the 
leddy’s dress. . . . An’, jist as I would ha’ done rnysel’ 
when I was her age, she ups an’ awa’ wi’ the young good- 
lookin’ ane. Jessie, dinna bother the gentleman, an’ say 
thenk ye, sir, when he gi’es ye a biscuit. I’m sure he’ll 
think ye’ve never been teached mainners an’ me never de- 
volvin’ frae mornin’ till nicht deavin’ them into ye.” 

She frowned reproachfully at Jessie who said “Thenk ye, 
sir,” in a thick voice, the distinctness of her articulation 
impaired by her mouth being full of biscuit. 

“She tak’s efter her feyther,” her mother added aside to 
Mrs. Abercrombie. “A rale fine lassie, ye ken, but, wi’ 
regaird to mainners an’ sic’ like, dour to drive as the nether- 
mill-stane.” 

“Aweel,” she went on then, “I was tellin’ ye aboot the 
Pieters. The lassie gangs off ridin’ wi’ the young man on 
horseback, an’ then the auld ane that was coortin’ her afore, 
when he finds they’re gane, he ups an’ efter them in a motor- 
car — then they get intil a train an’ syne intil an aeroplane, 
an’ there they go — the young anes fleein’ for their lifes an’ 
the auld ane chasin’ — till the motor gets coupit heels o’er 
heeds doon a cliff into the sea wi’ the auld ane inside it — 
so that was the end o’ him, puir man — but it served him 
richt a’ the same for no’ takin’ no for a answer, an’ I 
think the lassie did perfectly richt, an’ eh, I’ve enjoyed 
mysel’!” 

At the word enjoyed, Mrs. Abercrombie and Ascher 
laughed aloud together, for there was enough zest in it to 
have served for half a dozen people. Mrs. Forgan laughed 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ARERCROMBIE 71 

too, a whole-hearted healthy laugh. Even the children 
grinned. 

“An’ sae did we all,” she added, beaming round upon her 
progeny, not excepting the unconscious infant. “It’s been 
worth it a’. Eh, Geordie?” 

“Ay, Mither,” said Geordie dutifully, but he seemed 
blase and elderly beside his parent. 

Perhaps, thought Mrs. Abercrombie, for he had still a 
careworn look, he was thinking that the “all” was not over 
yet. 

This opinion was strengthened by his evident uneasiness. 
He kept peering out into the darkness, till suddenly, when 
the train stopped again — 

“Here we are, Mither!” he exclaimed in a shrill little 
anxious voice. At the word, as though it had been an 
order to charge, the whole family crowded towards the door 
of the carriage, and even the baby began to cry as though 
determined to increase the general confusion. Geordie was 
the only one who kept his head. With a presence of mind 
beyond his years, he remembered and got down the parcels 
from the rack. All the others, including Mrs. Forgan, 
seemed to be obsessed with the idea that it was now or 
never. 

Young Dash, when Mrs. Abercrombie held him firmly on 
her knee, until there should be sufficient room to move him, 
kicked harder than ever he had done before, and yelled 
when he saw his relatives departing without him. At the 
same time it was by the merest fluke that Ascher prevented 
the fourth, called Phemie, from launching herself through 
the window in the direction of the platform. 

Manners went by the board. Farewells were forgotten. 

“And yet the train is sure to wait for ages,” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie to Ascher, shouting to make herself heard 
through the racket. “Do, there’s a dear, just go and see 
the smallest ones safely off the platform and into their per- 
ambulator if they have one. It’s absolutely pitch dark.” 

It was not, as a matter of fact. It was more grey than 


72 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

dark, but it looked gloomy enough in the fields over the 
white paling. As she spoke, she was handing him out Dash 
the Second, who was so ungrateful as to go on yelling till 
he felt himself on the ground. 

“Oh you naughty little thing! ” she said. “You have 
inherited your father’s temper! I have a good mind,” she 
added, “to get out myself. They live miles from any- 
where. Fancy wheeling a perambulator for miles through 
this darkness!” 

She had one foot on the platform when Ascher stopped 
her. 

“On no account get out,” he said. “I’ll manage.” 

And he ran off, picking up Dash the Second en route to 
save time, and causing him thereby to renew his demonstra- 
tions of wrath. 

“They should mak’ thon chap a porter to trade,” said 
the real porter, after he had endeavoured to shout the name 
of the station so that it could be heard above the din, and 
had failed because he was hoarse with years. Even had 
he not been so, however, it would have made no difference 
to Mrs. Abercrombie, who was far too interested in the 
exodus of the Forgan party to pay the slightest attention 
to anything else. She was standing on tiptoe watching the 
last of them disappearing when she felt the carriage begin 
to move and realised that she was off again without Ascher. 

“How very annoying?” she said aloud to herself. “And 
I have the tickets, too.” 

“Ay, it’s a peety,” said a voice behind her. It sounded 
like a hen speaking. 

She turned with a start and beheld an elderly woman 
who must have entered unnoticed in the pandemonium. 
She had a very high forehead and a still higher bonnet 
decorated with black roses. She had besides small heavy- 
lidded eyes, a short nose, hanging cheeks, and no chin to 
speak of. 

“But ye canna help it,” she added after a moment, draw- 
ing her old-fashioned dolman more closely round her. “Ye 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 73 

canna help it noo whatever ye dae, an’ that should be a 
comfort to ye.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie laughed. 

“Do you think so?” she said, sitting down opposite this 
new travelling companion and surveying her with apprecia- 
tion. “Do you really think so?” 

“Ay do I,” said the woman, “as sure as my name’s Betsy 
Paterson” — she pronounced it Peyterson — “an’ I’ve thocht 
it for thirty year. When ye can help a thing, it’s worrying 
for then ye dinna ken whether or no. But when it’s past 
an’ ye canna help it whatever ye dae, it’s a’ richt.” 

“I don’t agree with you at all,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“Do you mean to say it’s all right that my friend should 
have been left behind at that last station when his destina- 
tion was Wood End?” 

There was silence for a moment as though the oracle on 
the opposite seat were pondering the problem which had 
been proposed to her. Mrs. Abercrombie, watching her, be- 
came quite anxious to hear her answer. 

It came at last with a little wry smirk. 

“What destiny did ye say yer friend was bound for?” 
she asked. 

“Wood End,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“An’ you?” said Betsy. “Whaur are you bound for?” 

“For Wood End, too,” was the reply. 

“Aweel, Mistress,” said Betsy, evidently enjoying herself 
hugely, “I alloo that I was wrang this time — pairtly. But 
it’s no’ only me that’s wrang. In fac’,” she paused for a 
moment as if to give her next words due effect, “he’s the 
only ane that’s no’ wrang.” 

“He?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, bewildered. 

“The gentleman,” explained Betsy. 

“Whatever do you mean?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“I mean,” said Betsy, “that if it was Wood End that he 
was wantin’ he’s a’ richt, for that last station was Wood 
End.” 

She laughed, when she had finished, with a cackling 


74 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

sound, ending on a long high skirl, that in spite of every- 
thing compelled Mrs. Abercrombie to join her. Before the 
train stopped again at a station called Longshaws, she and 
Betsy were already on the best of terms. 

Her new friend had not been able to give her any further 
information, having only been on a visit to Wood End and 
knowing nothing of the neighbourhood. 

All the advice, however, which she had time to give, she 
gave. 

“An’ see an’ tak’ care o’ yersel’ in the dark,” was her 
parting injunction, “for, mind you, neither you nor me is 
as young as we once was.” 

“Weel, as I canna help that whatever I dae,” replied Mrs. 
Abercrombie with an excellent Scotch accent, “I suppose 
it’ll be a’ richt.” 

At this Betsy’s cackle began again, and the last that Mrs. 
Abercrombie saw and heard of her newest acquaintance 
was her high bonnet nodding out of the carriage window, 
and her final ecstatic shriek as she was borne away into the 
darkness. 

It was all very well, however, to bandy jests about her pre- 
dicament. Mrs. Abercrombie was in no enviable position. 

From the porter — a slow-witted youth — who came up to 
ask her for her ticket, she learned that there was no train 
back that night to Wood End, and that, by the turn-pike 
road, she was at least six miles from it. 

“And there’s nae cabs,” he added. 

“I had not supposed so,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, looking 
round. 

If it had been dark at Wood End, it was still darker at 
Longshaws, for, beyond the white paling, there was nothing 
to be seen but trees. 

“This is the Wood, I suppose,” reflected Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, and she blenched a little within herself as she thought 
of the six miles. 

“Is there no other road?” she said aloud. 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 75 

“There’s the Cuttin’,” said the porter. “It tak’s ye 
straicht through and it’s jist three mile.” 

“I’ll go by that,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

The porter stared in silence for a moment. Then he be- 
gan to grin slowly, much as Elizabeth would have done. 

“Ye’ll never dae that,” he said confidently. 

“Which is the Cutting?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, taking 
no notice either of his grin or his opinion. “Is that it?” 
she went on, pointing with her umbrella to where the faint 
light from the one lamp on the platform illuminated a 
tunnel-like opening in the trees. 

“Ay,” he said, and she began to move forward. 

“But ye canna gang that way,” he added. “It’s an 
awfu’ road the Cuttin’. It’s no’ for the likes o’ you. Wait 
an’ I’ll tell the station-master.” 

This, of course, was the one thing needed to start Mrs. 
Abercrombie off. That she who had travelled all over Eu- 
rope, not to speak of more distant parts of the world, should 
be patronised as the woman who had missed her station by 
a country station-master was not tolerable. Grasping her 
umbrella in one hand and her bag in the other, she was on 
her way to the gate before the words were well out of the 
porter’s mouth. 

“Good night,” was all the answer he received, and next 
moment she had vanished all but her ticket. 

Ten minutes afterwards the station-master, having fin- 
ished his not over-arduous duties for that time, turned his 
steps in the direction of his house whose little red-curtained 
window, glowing like a danger signal, was beckoning him 
back to the comfortable meal he had left. Awaiting him 
there were his wife, a little hatchet-faced, sparse-haired 
woman who was making fresh tea for him at the fire, and 
her counterpart, a little hatchet-faced, sparse-haired man, 
very obviously her brother, who was sitting munching toast 
rather disconsolately at the table. He was a much more 
important person than he appeared to be, for he had no 


76 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

social ambitions and was naturally of a retiring nature, but 
he was none other than Peter Dunwiddie of Wood End, 
Family Grocer, General Merchant, and Post Office keeper 
of that ilk. Moreover, since the war had reft away all the 
active and some even of the inactive men of that place he 
was the Individual, as the minister had said to him in his 
last speech before he left for the battle-front, to whom The 
Whole Community would turn for advice and help. 

Being a very conscientious man, and having a profound 
admiration for his minister, this thought had sorely worried 
Peter ever since it had been expressed, and never had it 
worried him more than when he sat there ruminating at 
his brother-in-law’s board. To his sister’s chagrin he had 
refused, until his host should have made his appearance, 
to put his very evident uneasiness into words. The entry 
of the station-master was therefore hailed by his wife, 
whose curiosity was sore on edge, with more than her usual 
enthusiasm. 

“Here’s John noo, Peter,” she said as her husband en- 
tered, and with a brief “Hullo, Peter,” took his seat opposite 
his guest. 

Silence, however, still prevailed, except for the sound of 
toast-munching. 

“Peter was wantin’ to speak to ye, John,” said Mrs. 
M‘ Kendrick at last, unable to bear any more. 

“Aweel, then, speak up, Peter,” said John, comfortably 
pouring his tea into Ins saucer to cool it. “What is’t?” 

Thus adjured, Peter dived his hand into his pocket and 
brought out a half-sheet of paper. 

“Read that,” he said, handing it over. “I got it by the 
post this afternoon.” 

M‘ Kendrick took the paper which was inscribed with 
about half a dozen lines of large irregular printing, done in 
pale ink. 

“To the Chief of the Special Constables, Wood End,” it 
ran, “look out for an Enemy Alien. This is urgent and im- 
portant, and is a sure message from one who does not wish 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 77 

to be known but who knows. Rathness, Eastshire, October, 
1918.” 

Mrs. M‘ Kendrick had stationed herself at her husband’s 
shoulder, and was also reading the message. 

“The Chief o’ the Special Constables! Is that you, 
Peter?” she asked. 

“Ay, for I am the only ane noo since the meenister left,” 
said Peter gloomily. “It’s awfu’,” he added, “to be sae un- 
derstaffed.” 

“Hoots!” said his sister. “The ither police’ll help ye.” 

“No’ them,” said Peter. “I tried them first. Ts it watch 
oot?’ they said. ‘Then watch awa’, Dunwiddie. We’re no’ 
hinderin’ ye.’ That’s a’ they said.” 

“But that’s impidence!” exclaimed Mrs. M‘Kendrick. “If 
I was you, Peter, I would lodge a complaint.” 

“Ah, but then ye see ye’re no’ me,” said her brother. 

Which was very true as his sister recognised. A man 
dependent upon the goodwill of the public could not afford 
to offend the police. 

“No’ like’s he was a government offeecial,” she explained 
to her husband afterwards, “like you or me, John.” 

She was therefore silenced. 

Her husband, however, had by this time found speech. 

“It’s a queer thing, Peter,” he said, as he smoothed the 
mysterious message out on the table before him, “but a 
stranger arrived here by this train — Gibbie the porter lad- 
die was jist tellin’ me — a rale madam o’ a woman that he’s 
never seen here afore. An’, say what he likit, naething 
would please her but she would set oot walkin’ to Wood 
End doon the Cuttin’, sayin’ she had missed her station or 
some sic rubbitch.” 

“Walkin’ doon the Cuttin’ at this time o’ nicht?” ex- 
claimed Mr. Dunwiddie. 

“Ay, an’ in a fell hurry,” said the station-master. “Gib- 
bie said that for a elderly woman it was fearsome to see her 
startin’ awa’ into the wud withoot a licht. He was that 


78 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

ta’en up aboot it that he clean forgot to mak’ her pay the 
difference frae Wood End to here.” 

“An’ she never mindit him?” said Mrs. Kendrick. 
“Eh, that was rale German!” 

“John,” said Peter, leaning forward with round eye9 
across the table. “Is it possible, think ye?” 

He paused for a reply. 

“I think,” said John weightily, “that if I was you, Peter, 
I would be efter her. Ye canna be wrang either way, 
whether or no.” 

Peter pondered for some time before replying. “Ye may 
be richt, John,” he said at last. “I’m no’ sayin’ ye’re no’ 
richt. At the same time ye may be wrang, an’ in my 
opeenion this is no’ a thing that should be ram-stam gane 
into.” 

“I’m no’ denyin’ that,” said John. “But it’s no’ as if ye 
was gaun to arrest her ye ken. Ye’ll jist be followin’ her, 
seein’ whaur she’s bound for.” 

At this Mr. Dunwiddie rose, but though he put on his cap 
he still remained stationary. 

“An’ what if she is a Gairman an’ gaun aboot airmed?” 
he said. “She micht turn upon me in the wud if she heard 
me followin’ her.” 

“Aweel, Peter, it’ll be for you no’ to let her hear ye,” 
said the station-master. “But if ye’re feared to gang, sit 
doon again, an’ let’s ha’ wer tea in peace.” 

“No, John,” said Peter, firmly and resolutely, pushing 
back his chair. “I’ll no’ say I’m no’ feared, for that would 
be a lee, but I’m no’ that feared but that I can dae my duty. 
Sae guid nicht to ye, Kirsty an’ John, an’ if ye never see me 
again in life, guid-bye to ye as weel!” 

“Eh, John, dinna let him gang!” cried Mrs. M‘Kendrick. 
“Ye’d never forgi’e yersel’ if you was to be his death!” 

“Hoots!” said John. “What hairm can come tae him 
frae an auld woman?” 

“Then gang you wi’ him, John,” implored his wife. 
“Dinna send him awa’ his lane.” 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 79 

“Na,” said John, “ I ken my duty better. If ony Ger- 
mans is aboot, my place is at my post.” 

“He’s richt,” said Peter, moving towards the door. “An’ 
I dinna want him wi’ me either. By God’s mercy I ha’ my 
rubber-soled boots on, an’ she micht hear him when she 
didna hear me! 9 

“Ay, so she would, Peter,” said John. “My — but ye’re 
a guid-plucked ane, man! I’ll tell the meenister when he 
comes back, an’ yer intended that’s to be — Eh, Peter? My 
she’ll be the prood woman!” 

To this remark he was surprised to receive no answer but 
a vigorous dig in the ribs from his wife. Acting, however, 
upon long experience, he responded by an immediate change 
of subject. 

“If ye tak’ my advice ye’ll gang by the stubble-field an’ 
cut her aff at the cross-roads, Peter,” he said hastily. “It 
would be a peety if ye was to miss her.” 

“I’ll no’ miss her,” said Peter grimly. 

“What was yon for?” said the station-master presently, 
when they had returned from shouting parting directions 
from the door-step, and were reseating themselves at their 
tea-table. 

He was referring to the dig in the ribs. 

“It was to stop ye sayin’ ony mair aboot intendeds,” 
said Mrs. M‘Kendrick. “I heard the day that Young Ellen 
Binnie is to be mairriet to Bob Lindsay o’ Broadlees.” 

“Never!” exclaimed her husband. 

“It’s true,” said Mrs. M‘Kendrick; “sae if Bob’s spared, 
when he gangs back to the trenches, it’s a’ up wi’ Peter.” 

“Aweel, I wouldna ha’ believed it,” said M‘ Kendrick. “A 
canny lass like Young Ellen preferrin’ Bob Lindsay tae a 
sensible man! No’ to say, a’ the same, but that Peter’s 
gettin’ gey auld an’ wizened-like.” 

“Young Ellen’s no’ that young hersel’,” said Mrs. M‘Ken- 
drick. 

Then after the space of a mouthful or so she added, 


8o THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


“But maybe Bob’ll no’ be spared.” 

“Maybe no’,” returned her husband. “There’s chances 
for the auldest and the wizenedest o’ us in war-time.” 

It was not until she had passed beyond the last glimmer 
of the station lamp that Mrs. Abercrombie realised that she 
would have been the better of her electric torch. She was 
not in the habit of using it, because as she said — if she saw 
nobody without it, nobody could see her, also it dazzled her 
and was more of a hindrance than a help. This, however, 
was in the streets of Rathness, which three winters of war 
had made as familiar to her in the dark as the windings of 
its rabbit-warren are to a rabbit. She had, for she was as 
adaptable to altered conditions as most of those whom she 
would have called the higher animals, acquired the habit of 
avoiding obstacles by some sixth sense, and finding her way 
with her feet. But it was one thing to find her way along 
the paved paths and the carefully levelled roads of Rath- 
ness, and quite another to walk down the Cuttin’, which 
seemed to consist of a miniature moraine between two deep 
ruts. 

“Though, of course, it’s a mercy the ruts are there,” she 
reflected. “If I keep between them I can’t go off the 
path.” 

She could accomplish a good deal on the path, however, 
as she very soon found to her cost. She could stumble 
badly, she could plunge over her shoes in water, she could 
slip on stones, she could all but sprain her ankle. The one 
thing she could not do, though, that was what she wanted 
to do most, was to go more than moderately fast. 

“Nevertheless, if you keep going you are bound to get 
there sometime,” she reminded herself, and, as Betsy Pey- 
terson would have said, this was a comfort to her. 

She kept going for this reason and for another also. She 
did not want to stop going in the Cuttin’. It had been very 
different stopping on the pavement, of Rathness, Lonely 
they had often been o’ nights when she went through them~ 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 81 


but never without the sense of human companionship, never 
without lots of people just through the stone walls. But 
the Cuttin’ was another matter. It was not the unseen 
beasts she feared. On the contrary, the sleeping birds and 
squirrels were a consolation to her. It was the wood itself 
that scared her, though it was doubtless just such a wood as 
those she had seen from the train and in which she had 
longed to wander. It was the trees she hated, hemming her 
in on either side, looming over her, whispering, rustling, an 
alert company of inhuman presences. She tried to think of 
other things, the war, her nephews, Ascher, Mrs. Forgan 
even, but the trees would none of it, and had brought her 
to the pass of imagining them leering at her with Rackham 
faces when, to her intense relief, she came upon a sign-post. 

It was painted white and was standing close beside the 
path. Hardly had she greeted it, however, than she became 
aware that along with it she was confronted with a new 
difficulty. 

The porter had said nothing of this. He had said that 
the Cuttin’ went straight through. 

“Liar or fool!” ejaculated Mrs. Abercrombie, for no less 
than three roads disparted here at different angles. 

And, do what she would, she could not read the sign-post. 

She was still trying to do so, however, being unwilling as 
usual to acknowledge defeat, when interruption came in the 
shape of Peter Dunwiddie. Noiseless because of his rubber 
soles, and lightless because of his fear of betraying himself, 
hurrying down his bypath in the dusk, he was not even 
aware that he was near the sign-post. Much less was he 
aware that he was near Mrs. Abercrombie, until, to his 
consternation as well as hers, they suddenly and violently 
collided. 

Peter, breathless anyhow, had not even time for an 
ejaculation before his quarry, with the bag in her right 
hand, had dealt him a staggering blow on the left shoulder, 
and a whack with her umbrella on the right. 


82 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Ah, would you?” she said fiercely. “Don’t try that 
again, sirl” 

Peter indeed had no desire to try it again, but, scared 
and winded as he was, he had yet his dignity to keep up. 

“I would give you the same advice, ye miscreant!” he 
panted, with the accent on the second syllable. 

“A-a-ah!” retorted Mrs. Abercrombie, “so you call names 
too do you? Are you aware to whom you are speaking?” 

“Ay, I am aware,” he said recklessly. “Ye’re a damned 
reptile o’ a German!” 

As he spoke he stood ready with his arms up fully expect- 
ing another attack. No attack came, however. There was 
silence for a few seconds. Then — 

“And what makes you think that, my man?” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie quietly. 

“I was warned o’ yer cornin’,” said Peter boldly. “I am 
the Chief Special Constable o’ Wood End, and I would have 
ye know it.” 

“And I,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “am Mrs. Abercrombie 
of 3 Canmore Place, Rathness, in Eastshire, and I would 
have you know it.” 

Here again there was a few moments’ silence. Then 
Peter spoke. 

“Ye’re never the Mrs. Abercrombie that Mrs. Binnie’s 
expec’in’ at the Doo-cote the nicht?” he said slowly. 

And for whose benefit I sold a pot of bramble jam and 
sundry other luxuries this very morning, he might have 
added. 

“I am,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I missed the station 
and got out at Longshaws, and mean to walk on presently 
to Wood End, if you will tell me which is the road to it.” 

“I beg your pardon, then, M’m,” said the Special Con- 
stable. 

“No, it is I who should beg yours,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “You were only doing your duty.” 

“I’m glad ye see that, M’m,” said Peter, much relieved. 
“It’s nae joke to be the only Special left in Wood End 


TRANSIT OF MRS. ABERCROMBIE 83 

to attend to messages an’ watch oot here an 7 watch oot 
there.” 

“I hope I did not hurt you much,” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie earnestly. 

“Oh, no’ to speak o’,” said Peter gallantly, though he 
was still rubbing his shoulder in the darkness. 

“Because,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, kindling to her sub- 
ject as usual, despite place and time, “I am in complete 
sympathy with you. I belong to the British Empire Union 
— I am president of a branch of it indeed — which under- 
takes to do all it can to hunt the alien from our midst.” 

“Well, M’m,” said Peter, “that’s good news for Wood 
End. It was jist a leddy like you we was wantin’. And if 
you’ll help, M’m, I’ll be very thankful.” 

“Certainly I will,” said Mrs. Abercrombie from sheer 
habit. But the moment after she had spoken she remem- 
bered the terms of her oath. “Ah, no ! ” she corrected her- 
self hastily. “I am sorry I can’t undertake anything — regu- 
larly. But you’ll come and talk to me about it, won’t you? 
Indeed you can tell me about it now, as we go along.” 

“This way then, M’m,” said Mr. Dunwiddie, and he was 
preceding her to the left with his best counter manner, 
when suddenly he stopped short. 

“Lord bless us, wha’s this next?” he exclaimed, flashing 
on his torch. 

A figure in a long light coat had suddenly appeared com- 
ing down the road towards them. 

“Hullo!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie delightedly. “It’s my 
friend, Mr. Ascher. Mr. Ascher — this is my friend the 
Chief Special Constable of Wood End.” 

“Very pleased I am sure,” said Mr. Dunwiddie genteelly. 

“Good evening,” said Ascher, laughing, as he raised his 
hat. “All’s well that ends well, Mrs. Abercrombie. The 
man who was meeting you at Wood End station, which is a 
long way from the village, found me telephoning to Long- 
shaws, and when we found you had started from there wd 
just came off straight to meet you. He refused to come all 


84 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

the way, and he said he was quite sure you had broken your 
leg, because the road you were attempting to come by was 
fit neither for man nor beast in the dark, but he’s just round 
the corner there with his dog-cart.” 

“Thank God!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 


CHAPTER IV 


IN WHICH MRS. ABERCROMBIE INADVERTENTLY PLAYS THE 
PART OF AN INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE, AND MR. 
JAMES CARRUTHERS BELIEVES HIMSELF TO BE THE VIC- 
TIM OF HALLUCINATION 

Meantime, in the shining, spotless kitchen of the Dove- 
cote, South, at Wood End, Mrs. Ellen Binnie and her niece, 
Young Ellen, were seated awaiting Mrs. Abercrombie’s ar- 
rival. 

Everything that could be done for her, before she came, 
had been done. Upstairs in the particler nice sitting-room 
a fire crackled, and a lamp stood ready lighted. The shut- 
ters were shut, the green curtains were drawn. The round' 
table, adorned by a jugful of late roses, was laid for supper, 
and, in the room across the passage, the bed was furnished 
with a hot bottle. 

Nor had Mrs. Abercrombie’s material wants only been 
anticipated. Mr. Carruthers, on being questioned in haste 
as to her likes and dislikes, had only been able to say that 
she was fond of music. The pride of the house therefore, 
a battered Schiedmayer boudoir grand, stood displaying its 
yellow keys in a long grin of welcome, with the first piece of 
the music-seller’s repertoire which Young Ellen could lay 
hands on, and which happened to be Schmitt’s five-finger 
exercises, set enticingly upon it. Besides these completed 
dispositions upstairs, there were also others downstairs of 
an incomplete nature. Bacon and eggs ready for frying 
were on the table, near Mrs. Binnie’s capable elbow. A pan 
was in attendance, a kettle was steaming, and slices of 
bread were marshalled ready for toasting. 

85 


86 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Mrs. Binnie’s own person too was in a high state of prep- 
aration. Her smooth, dark hair, that showed no sign of 
grey, although she was already in her sixties, was so oiled 
and glossy that the lamplight was reflected in it. Her 
round, rosy, weather-beaten face looked, in spite of wrinkles, 
as though it had been polished with chamois leather. She 
wore no cap, but she had put on the black dress and white 
apron, collar and cuffs, which she wore when officiating at 
public functions. For Mrs. Ellen Binnie, though at this 
moment of description she was sitting with her arms folded, 
doing absolutely nothing, was no spent force to be left out 
of reckonings, as Wood End well knew, but was on the con j 
trary its most remarkable woman. 

She was in fact, though like other experts she did not 
allow any effort to become apparent, a really great manager, 
and even in repose, as she sat there, massive yet sinewy as a 
man, she looked what she was, a very Napoleon among 
housekeepers. Not one to miss her opportunities was Mrs. 
Ellen Binnie, and the war-time at Wood End had been to 
her a succession of opportunities. When others had gone 
off to munitions or field-work she had been ready to occupy 
till they came. No less than five separate houses now af- 
forded her a field for her energy, which seemed as insatiable 
as her desire to amass wealth. She was due at the Estab- 
lished Church manse on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fri- 
days; at the Free Church manse on Tuesdays; at the Doc- 
tor’s on Thursdays, and at old Miser Lindsay’s — Bob Lind- 
say’s uncle’s — at Broadlees farmhouse, on Saturdays. 
When and how she managed to run her own house, popu- 
larly called the Doo-cote, for lodgers, she best knew herself, 
and her niece, Young Ellen, who in appearance and every-* 
thing else, looked and was a fairly new edition of her aunt. 

Only fairly, certainly, for, as Mrs. M‘Kendrick had said, 
Young Ellen, already in her thirties, was only young com- 
paratively. In spite of hard work, however, and a more 
wearing because a more nervous energy than her aunt’s, she 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 87 

had retained that fine bloom and lithe grace which comes 
from health and constant exercise. 

She was, however, neither so impressive nor so good- 
looking as her aunt. There was no grandeur about Young 
Ellen. Her face, with its frame of smooth, dark hair, its 
round black eyes, and its very pink cheeks, reminded one 
rather of a Dutch doll’s than of Napoleon’s. It expressed 
her nature, however, which, in anyone so open and above- 
board as Young Ellen, was the best thing it could have done 
for her. It was meek rather than commanding, and had al- 
ways a slightly startled air, not because of life’s experience, 
but because of the raised eyebrows it had been born with. 
Nevertheless those eyebrows served very well to express the 
constant mild surprise with which Young Ellen’s world in 
general inspired her, and were, besides, a silent protest when 
everything else about her was adjusting itself to do the bid- 
ding of her aunt. 

Young Ellen was in blacks too, and white-collared, cuffed 
and aproned. As badge of youth, however, she wore also 
a small butterfly bow of black ribbon pinned coquettishly 
to one side upon her glossy top-knot. Moreover, in marked 
contrast to the majestic repose of Old Ellen, she was knit- 
ting feverishly with long bone pins, one of which she held 
tightly under her arm, and which clicked in the silence like 
a pair of castanets. 

“They’re takin’ their time,” said Mrs. Binnie at last, 
glancing at the eight-day clock, which stood in a corner 
opposite to her. “The train should ha’ been in lang syne. 
Are ye certain ye mindit to tell Bob to meet her?” 

“Certain,” said Young Ellen. “An’ he was to tak’ the 
fast horse.” 

“The ane he tak’s when he comes here?” asked Old 
Ellen with a gleam of humour. “Did ye invite him to sup- 
per?” she added after a moment. 

“Ay,” said Young Ellen, knitting more furiously than 
ever, while her cheeks became a brighter shade of magenta. 
“At least,” she corrected herself, “he invitit hissel’.” 


88 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Oh, he invitit hissel’, did he?” said Old Ellen, evidently 
not ill-pleased. “Then we needna worry. Hell be here as 
sune as he can.” 

In lieu of worrying, she fell to considering her niece with 
an impersonal critical stare, which poor Young Ellen had 
often found very disconcerting. As her custom had long 
been, however, she pretended not to notice it, and only went 
on more strenuously with her knitting. 

“Auld Lindsay was speaking to me aboot the weddin’ the 
day,” said Old Ellen presently, “when I was up at Broad- 
lees. He thinks it should be at once. Afore Bob gangs 
back to the front.” 

Young Ellen looked up, her whole face, as well as her eye- 
brows, expressing surprise. 

“At once?” she exclaimed. 

Old Ellen laughed. 

“Ay, I thocht ye’d be surprised,” she said. “I was 
surprised myseF. But the auld man’s fair set on it, he 
wants Bob to be steadied doon he says, an’ besides he would 
like, if onything happened to Bob, to ha’ you at Broadlees. 
He thinks that much o’ you for a hoosekeeper, he says. 
Mind ye, Ellen, that’s something frae a man like Broad- 
lees.” 

Ellen did not answer except by beginning to knit again, 
but though she had made no demur in words, her appear- 
ance was dissentient. So thought Old Ellen, at all events, 
after she had regarded her for a moment. 

“If ye werena wantin’ to mairry Bob Lindsay,” she said 
at last, “what for did ye accept him?” 

Because you and old Miser Lindsay had made it up be- 
tween you Ellen might have answered; because Bob himself 
was young and impetuous and in uniform, and would not 
take no for an answer; because I was fond of him in my 
own quiet way before he went away to be a soldier. But 
she said none of these things. All she said was, “Oh, I’ll 
mairry him.” But she did not say it enthusiastically. 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 89 

Mrs. Binnie sat looking at her in silence for a little 
longer, with tight mouth, with bent brows. Then — 

“Ellen,” she said, “pit doon yer knittin’ an’ look at me. 
What’s wrang between you an’ Bob? I thocht ye likit 
him.” 

“I do like him, Auntie,” said Ellen obeying, and drop- 
ping her castanets in her lap. 

“Then is it him that’s no’ fond o’ you?” 

Young Ellen smiled. 

“Oh, no,” she said. 

“What is’t then?” said Old Ellen. “Speak oot noo, or 
never speak again.” 

“I’ll speak then,” said Young Ellen, her doll-cheeks be- 
coming pinker and pinker. “It’s that he’s no’ the same 
since he cam’ back frae killin’ Germans. I thocht it was a 
fairmer I was gaun tae mairry — a man like mysel’ that had 
lived a’ his life among quiet places an’ quiet ways. But 
it’s no’ fairmer I’m mairryin’ noo. Afore the war he would 
hear reason. Ye could explain things to him. Noo he jist 
says he’ll jab folks wi’ bayonets.” 

“Jab folks wi’ bayonets?” exclaimed Old Ellen, horrified. 

“What folk was he gaun tae jab?” 

Ellen fumbled with her knitting again, and had dropped 
two stitches before she replied very low — 

“Mr. Dunwiddie, Auntie.” 

“Mr. Dunwiddie,” cried Mrs. Binnie, turning in her chair 
in her astonishment. “What mak’s him say that, lassie?” 

Ellen fumbled again. 

“Speak oot,” commanded her aunt. 

“He heard that Mr. Dunwiddie wantit to mairry me,” 
said Young Ellen. 

“To mairry you?” exclaimed her aunt. “Peter Dunwid- 
die, that’s very near as auld as me, wantin’ to mairry you? 
Hoo did he ever hear that?” 

“I dinna ken,” said Ellen. 

“Wha ever said sic nonsense?” cried Mrs. Binnie, appeal- 
ing to the kitchen at large. 


90 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Mr. Dunwiddie hissel’ for ane,” said Young Ellen unex- 
pectedly. 

“Never!” cried Mrs. Binnie. 

“But he did,” persisted Young Ellen. 

“Hoo do you ken?” demanded her aunt. 

“Because,” said Young Ellen, her round eyes fixed, as 
though fascinated, upon her questioner, “it was to me he 
said it.” 

What her aunt would have replied to this, if she had been 
able to recover her speech in time, will never be known. 
For just at this moment there came a loud knocking or 
rather hammering at the outer door. 

“There they are,” exclaimed Mrs. Binnie as she hastened 
forth to meet the new-comers, and Young Ellen, flinging 
aside her knitting, seized the frying-pan in anticipation. 
The arrival outside seemed to hang fire, however. After 
the outer door was opened there was a moment’s silence. 
Then — 

“What’s this noo?” Ellen heard her aunt ask not very 
graciously, and she laid down the frying-pan again. The 
visitor, whoever it was, was evidently not the one expected. 
Then after another moment of silence — 

“Dash Forgan!” she heard her aunt exclaim. 

“Jist him,” came a surly voice. 

“Well I am surprised!” cried Mrs. Binnie. 

“Ye may weel be,” said the man, “an’ some ither folk’ll 
be surprised afore mornin’.” 

There was yet another moment’s pause apparently, while 
Mrs. Binnie tried to take this in. 

“I dinna ken what ye mean,” she said then. “But come 
awa’ ben an’ let’s see ye.” 

“I’m no’ very bonny to look at,” said Dash. 

He was not. His khaki uniform was splashed with fresh 
mud from head to foot. His boots were a sight. Even his 
good-looking face was smeared as though it had been wiped 
with a muddy sleeve. It was darkened as well by a heavy 
frown. 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 91 

“Bless me, Dash!” was all Mrs. Binnie found power to 
ejaculate, “whaur ever ha’ ye been to get yersel’ into sic a 
mess?” 

“Whaur d'ye think?” exclaimed Dash hoarsely. “I've 
been hame, that’s whaur I’ve been.” 

He emphasised the word “hame” by banging his fist on 
the table. 

“I’ve been hame,” he went on, “come on leave from 
France, oot o’ the jaws o’ death — an’ I arrive at Cock-ma- 
lone to find the door shut an’ the hoose dark, an’ the wife 
an’ bairns that I expec’it to gi’e a surprise — whaur d’ye 
think? Awa’ wi’ a strange man to see the Pieters at Cairn- 
cross.” 

At this there was a loud exclamation from both Ellens. 

“Ay!” Dash Forgan went on, his fury becoming hotter, 
apparently, the more he put it into words. “Ay, auld 
Tammas the byreman at Broadlees telled me — I met him on 
the road an’ he said he’d seen them awa’ to the station in 
the mornin’. Ay, that’s the way Mirny cairries on when her 
man’s in the fore-front o’ the fecht, exposin’ hissel’ for her 
— but I'll show her! I’ll teach her! ” 

“An’ d’ye mean to tell me, Dash,” said Mrs. Binnie, “that 
auld Tammas tauld ye that Mirny an’ her seeven bairns was 
awa’ to the station wi’ a strange man?” 

“Na, he was ower canny,” returned Dash. “He didna 
tell me — though he knew well enough, the auld deevil, for I 
mind noo he was lauchin’. It was Donald the porter that 
tell’t me — I met him next — he was cornin’ bikin’ frae the 
station efter the evening train was in, an’ he said he had 
seen Mirny an’ a’ the bairns at the station, but that I 
needna hurry for a strange man was lookin’ efter them.” 

“God help’s!” exclaimed Mrs. Binnie, and Young Ellen 
stood open-mouthed. Then all of a sudden she recovered 
herself. 

“There’s some daft-like mistake, Dash,” she said. “I 
dinna believe’t o’ Mirny.” 

“Nor me,” agreed Old Ellen. 


92 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Believe’t or no’ as ye like,” said Dash; “but as for 
mistakes there’ll be nae mistak’ when I gang back the 
nicht ” 

“Weel, weel,” said Mrs. Binnie soothingly, “I’m glad ye 
had the sense onyway to come here, Dash.” 

“Ay,” said the man wearily, smearing his face with his 
sleeve once more. “I thocht ye micht tak’ me in for the 
sake o’ the auld days, an’ ye’re cousins as weel, an’ ye’ll 
keep the thing quiet. Besides Mirny can never hear tell o’ 
you, Young Ellen, she’s that jealous. That’s mainly why I 
cam’.” 

“Weel, weel,” said Mrs. Binnie again, “never mind 
aboot that noo. Ye’re that tired an’ hungry ye dinna ken 
what ye’re sayin’. Awa’ ben the scullery there an gi’e 
yersel’ a wash doon an’ by the time ye come back there’ll 
be supper for ye an’ efter supper we can ha’ a crack aboot 
it.” 

“Is there onything besides the bacon an’ eggs? Ony- 
thing ready?” she added hastily to Young Ellen when she 
returned from lighting a candle for the visitor in the scul- 
lery. 

“I was jist thinkin’,” said Young Ellen, wrinkling those 
eyebrows of hers. “An’ there’s naething ready but Mr. 
Carruthers’s pie. He’ll maybe no’ ha’ eaten ony o’t yet.” 

“When did ye see it last?” said Mrs. Binnie. 

“At tea-time,” said Young Ellen. “But I drew his 
attention an’ mindit him aboot it. An’ he said ‘Very well, 
I will.’ ” 

“Still, there’s a chance,” said Mrs. Binnie. “Lord’s sake! 
It’s an awfu’ like thing to dae, but it may prevent murder 
bein’ done this nicht. Rin’ an’ see if ye can get it.” 

Neither Mrs. Abercrombie nor Ascher could understand 
why Mr. Dunwiddie would not accompany them in the dog- 
cart. They assured him that there was plenty of room for 
him, and he knew, as well as they did and better, what a 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 93 

long rough road he had still to traverse. Nothing, how- 
ever, would induce him to get in. 

“Is he afraid of driving?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, after 
they had started, to Bob Lindsay, who had sat very big 
and erect and silent during the argument. 

“So it seems,” said Bob, and Mrs. Abercrombie for a mo- 
ment imagined, though afterwards she believed she must 
have been mistaken, that he chuckled. 

There was no mistake, however, about the noise at the 
Dove-cote when, after, at his desire, dropping Ascher at 
Mr. Carruthers’s end, they went on to what Bob called 
Mrs. Binnie’s. 

The door stood open, and from within there came a con- 
fused sound of what seemed to be arguing. 

“The Doves seem not to be on very good terms,” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie to herself, as she held the reins while 
her driver got down to announce her arrival, for the in- 
mates could not have heard it. 

“Are ye there, Mrs. Binnie?” he shouted in at the door- 
way. 

Instantaneous silence followed, and a moment after Mrs. 
Binnie made her appearance upon the doorstep, full of 
apologies and welcomes. 

“You have other lodgers, besides Mr. Carruthers, I 
hear,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, as she followed her landlady 
up the narrow stair. 

“No, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie, who was rather more 
breathless and red in the face than usual. “That was jist 
a visitor, M’m — a cousin o’ mine — Dash Forgan — jist back 
from France, M’m. He’s a transport-driver.” 

Mrs. Binnie here looked back in surprise, for Mrs. Aber- 
crombie had come to a standstill on the stair. 

“Did I hear you say,” she asked, “that your cousin, 
Dash Forgan , was in the kitchen?” 

“Yes, M’m, from the front,” said Mrs. Binnie. “That’s 
why we was makin’ such a noise when ye cam’ in. He is — 
a little excited, M’m.” 


94 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Mrs. Binnie made as though she would move on again, 
being anxious to transfer Mrs. Abercrombie to her own 
rooms before Dash should, as he inevitably would, she w T as 
sure, break out again. 

As a matter of fact he had already begun, though, in def- 
erence to Young Ellen’s urgent commands that he should 
hold his tongue till the lady was upstairs, he was speaking 
in a subdued voice. This, however, only seemed to express 
his concentrating fury more. He was, as the terrified 
Ellen said afterwards, like a kettle that gets quieter- 
like jist as it’s cornin’ to the boil. 

“It’s nae use,” he was saying. “I’ll ha’ it oot wi’ Mirny, 
an’ I dinna care wha hears me. No, I’ll no’ stay here the 
nicht. An’ you an’ yer auntie needna think ye can inter- 
fere between man an’ wife, though ye have given me a 
guid supper — that gi’es ye nae power over me.” 

“Dash Forgan!” exclaimed Young Ellen indignantly. 

“Ay, an’ ye thocht ye would come roond me, did ye?” 
he went on. “Stovin’ me up wi’ supper an’ soft talk, an’ 
thinkin’ ye would save Mirny from what she richly de- 
serves — but she’ll get it this nicht an’ get it proper — if I ha’ 
to swing for it — an’ neither You nor yet yer Auntie nor yet 
yer Pie will hinder me!” 

Outside on the stairs, Mrs. Binnie by this time was aware 
that another outburst was imminent, but, do what she 
would, she could not move her new boarder one step 
further towards her apartments. To Mrs. Abercrombie 
Dash only sounded as a crescendo murmur still quite in- 
articulate, but, all the more, the sound stimulated her 
curiosity and her interest. 

“A man from the front?” she exclaimed, “and a trans- 
port-driver? and named Dash Forgan? What a delightful 
coincidence! Do you know, Mrs. Binnie, I met his wife 
and family in the train this very afternoon. You really 
must allow me to make his acquaintance.” 

“Oh, M’m, are you not too tired?” said Mrs. Binnie 
hastily. 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 95 

But Mrs. Abercrombie was already going down the stair 
again. 

“I am never too tired to shake hands with a soldier 
from the front,” she said, and, sure enough in a minute’s 
time, she was shaking hands with the astonished Dash. 

M I hear you are the husband of a charming woman I 
met this afternoon,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, beaming, “and 
the father of seven of the finest children I have ever had 
the pleasure of seeing. Your eldest son is one to be proud 
of I am sure. He looked after them all like a man in your 
absence. What a delightful ending to their day of pleasur- 
ing to have you home again!” 

“Yes, M’m,” said Dash mechanically, as she paused for 
a reply, for Mrs. Abercrombie with her geniality and her 
distinction had, as he said afterwards, fairly bombed the 
wits out of him. 

“The first day away, your wife told me, she had had 
for many years,” Mrs. Abercrombie went on. “Really, it 
is refreshing to come across such devotion. For a pretty 
woman like that, and she is indeed delightfully pretty, and 
so young-looking, too, to be the mother of seven — for a 
pretty woman to bury herself for nine years in the depths 
of the country for your sake; you may well be proud of 
her — you may well go and fight for her and your seven 
delightful children. I can tell you, my friend and I were 
quite sorry to part with them. My friend, Mr. Ascher, 
was as interested as I was — and, by the way, he should be 
your friend too, for he saw your family safely to their 
perambulator.” 

Dash’s eyes grew suddenly rather wild. 

“ Your friend Mr. Ascher?” he exclaimed. “Was \t 
him?” 

“Had you heard of it?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Yes, 
I call him a brick, don’t you? It’s not every young man 
that would be seen on a railway-platform herding babies, 
but he did it to oblige me, as it was so dark, and there were 
such a lot of them, poor dears.” 


96 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Well I never,” began Dash, turning scarlet and then 
white, while the two Ellens in the background nearly col- 
lapsed from sheer relief. But Mrs. Abercrombie gave him 
no chance of saying more. 

“So you are on your way home?” she went on imme- 
diately. “And where have you come from? Have you 
been in the Great Advance?” 

“Yes, M’m,” said Dash, recovering himself proudly, 
“from jist behind Cambrai” — he pronounced it like Cam- 
bridge. “It’s been a great move forward, M’m — it’s been 
great.” 

“Ah, you are in the transport, are you not?” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie. “Your wife told me — a dangerous job — a 
very dangerous job I have always heard — but your wife 
told me you were a great fighter too, though you are sup- 
posed not to fight. If a German countered you, she would 
not be sure of you, she said.” 

At this Dash grinned suddenly from ear to ear, and his 
grin seemed to spread also over the faces of the two El- 
lens. 

“Did she say that?” he said. 

“She did indeed,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “But now I 
have a crow to pick with you. You are going home with- 
out notice, for she knew nothing of it when I saw her. How 
she would have rejoiced! For she has missed you more 
than she could tell me, so much so that, in sheer despera- 
tion, she had to go to the Pictures. You are going home 
without notice. Now that’s a bad thing. It might lead to 
all sorts of bother.” 

“I don’t see ” began Dash. 

“No, of course you don’t,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “But 
I do, for just that same thing happened to me. Two 
nephews of mine — one a D.S.O. and both from the front — 
arrived one night about a fortnight ago at my house and 
found it dark and the door shut.” 

“Never!” exclaimed Dash. 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 97 

“They did,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Now I ask you 
what about supper?” 

“I’ve had mine here,” said Dash, reddening again. “I — 
I thought it would save trouble.” 

“My nephews did better,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“They got in supper both for themselves and me. They 
had quite a little feast ready for me when I came back. 
Now I once had an old aunt who, when she did anyone a 
kindness, said, ‘Don’t thank me — but pass it on.’ May I 
pass on my nephews’ kindness to you, Mr. Forgan? I 
will do it gladly, in the name of all the soldiers belonging 
to me at the front, and because of the real pleasure it was 
to me to-day to meet that charming wife and family of 
yours. Mrs. Binnie,” she added, turning to her landlady, 
“how can we manage it? There is a provision-merchant 
somewhere in Wood End I’m sure.” 

“Ay, but he’s away, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie rather dis- 
couragingly. “For it riled me,” she said afterwards to 
Young Ellen, “to see Dash Forgan gettin’ the present o’ 
anither supper, an’ him wi’ Mr. Carruthers’s pie, that I 
had taken sic a trouble wi’, hardly five meenits doon his 
throat.” 

“Ye see, M’m,” she added, however, feeling that her 
tone had been rather ungracious, “it’s the shop holiday 
the day an’ the grocer’s no’ at the shop.” 

“Oh, but surely he will be somewhere about,” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie. “Could he not be found?” 

“I’m afraid no’ the nicht, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie. “Ye 
never ken whaur he may be — ye see he’s the Chief Special 
Constable 0’ Wood End and ” 

Here she was unexpectedly interrupted by an exclama- 
tion of delight from her boarder. 

“The Chief Special Constable?” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“Then I know him! He is a friend of mine! How very 
fortunate! Also I know where he is. He will be at Wood 
End quite soon. Will somebody be so good as to keep 


98 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

watch for him, while I sit down here, and have a chat with 
Mrs. Forgan’s husband ?” 

It fell to the lot of Bob Lindsay, who had just returned 
from putting up the horse, to keep watch for Mr. Dun- 
widdie. Nothing, however, would have induced him to do 
it but the knowledge that, if he declined, Young Ellen 
would be the watcher. 

Mr. Dunwiddie, when he came plodding into the oblong 
of light shed by the open door of the Dove-cote, was 
startled to see Bob’s big figure standing by it. 

“Ye’re to come in,” said Bob shortly. “I was sent here 
to tell ye, or weel ye ken I wouldna sae much as look at 
ye.” 

“What am I to come in for?” said Mr. Dunwiddie, re- 
senting, as well he might, the tone Bob was taking with 
him. “I’m no’ wantin’ to come in.” 

“Please yersel’,” said Bob, turning his back on the road 
and on his rival at the same time and swinging into the 
house again. 

But Mr. Dunwiddie followed closely on his heels, as Bob 
saw with a scowl, when he turned once more. His rival, 
however, had come to a standstill on the threshold, thunder- 
struck at the prospect which was presented to him. 

The two Ellens were waiting about in a semi-paralysed 
state apparently until Mrs. Abercrombie should again have 
need of them. Mrs. Abercrombie, however, appeared for 
the time being to have totally forgotten every one but 
Dash. 

They sat side by side at the table, he talking and she 
listening, and their heads were bent together over a little 
torn field-map which lay spread out between them. 

“La Bassee,” he was saying as Dunwiddie came in. “Eh, 
that was the graund place, where the estaminet was” — he 
pronounced it estaminette — “an’ the Vinn Roodge, an’ the 
tile hats. Eh, that was the rare divert!” 

“Tell me about it,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“The toon’sfolk, puir craters,” said Dash, “when they 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 99 

had to leave in a hurry didna mind to tak’ everything, an* 
there was a heap o’ tile hats left. Sae some o’ the chaps 
pit them on — it was enough tae mak’ a cat lauch — an’ sat 
in the middle o’ the street drinkin’ each ither’s healths 
in Vinn Roodge. Eh, M’m, I wish ye’d seen’t!” 

“I wish I had!” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 

Then looking up she became aware of the latest arrival 
standing petrified in the doorway. 

“Ah, Mr. Dunwiddie,” she said, rising. “How good of 
you to come in! Come and consult, and let me see if you 
are as good at being a provider as you are at being a special 
constable.” 

Ascher, meanwhile, having been left by his protectress 
at the door of Mr. Carruthers’s end, stood knocking there in 
vain until it occurred to him that, if his former preceptor 
were its only occupant, he might remain till Doomsday 
without response. He therefore tried the door, found it on 
the latch, and entered. Then, with a lantern which he 
found on the hall table, he looked through the downstairs 
rooms, and finding them empty, made his way upstairs. 
For any sound or sign of life, all here too might have been 
emptiness. Presently, however, turning a corner in the 
passage he saw a streak of light emerging from under a door 
facing him. 

Going forward, therefore, he tapped at it twice, and again 
failing to obtain an answer, opened it, when, with a strange 
medley of feeling, he saw a familiar narrow back and rum- 
pled, grizzled head bent over a desk just opposite. A 
hanging lamp above it illumined the desk, and the books 
that were heaped upon it. Materials for a meal stood on 
a table near. A fire languished in the grate. A kettle sang 
faintly. 

More books were piled on the floor in places, but every- 
thing else in the room, that it had been possible to clear 
out, had been cleared. Not a picture broke the flowery 


100 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


lines of a feebly ugly wall-paper. There was only one chair, 
and there were no adornments. 

Suddenly, as Ascher stood gazing, the man at the desk 
turned round. Either the draught from the door or some- 
thing more occult had disturbed him. He removed his 
spectacles, and his peering eyes met Ascher’s, then he put 
on a pair of eye-glasses that hung round his neck by a 
string, and stared long and hard at him. 

“Ascher?” he said at last, almost in a whisper. “Is it 
possible?” 

He rose slowly and stiffly, as though it had been long 
since he had moved, and k'eeping his eyes fixed all the time 
on his visitor. He did not come towards him, however, but 
stood where he was, leaning one hand on the desk behind 
him. 

“Can you speak?” he said at last, in the same tone and 
with his eyes still fixed. “Can you tell me where you have 
come from?” 

“I can,” said Ascher, coming across the room to him. “I 
am not a ghost nor a wraith either. Fm sorry, sir, but 
I’m not. I wish to God I were. Will you still shake hands 
with me?” 

“Why, of course I will,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

Then, holding Ascher’s hand in his, and looking up at the 
pale, moved face looking down into his. 

“Why should I not shake hands?” he added. “I am 
sure you are still Ascher.” 

“And I was sure you were still Mr. Carruthers,” said 
Ascher, “or I would never have come. But oh, sir, it has 
been despicable of me to come like this. Anyone else 
would think so, I know — the kind woman that brought me 
here, more than anybody, would think so.” 

“Let’s sit down,” said Mr. Carruthers suddenly, “and let 
me fully understand this. Let’s sit close to the fire,” and he 
drew forward his own chair and sat down. As there was 
no other chair available, Ascher established himself on a 


INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE 101 

pile of books — very large and solid ones — at one side of the 
hearth. 

“Yes, this is better, : ” said Mr. Carruthers, “for you are 
very cold. Your hand is very cold. And you must be 
hungry too,” he added, recollecting himself. “You must 
eat something.” 

He rose and went over to the tray on the table. 

Then a moment passed in silence while he stood looking 
at it. 

“It’s a strange thing, Ascher,” he said at last. “I could 
have sworn I had seen a pie here — and I have no recollec- 
tion of eating it. Yet I must have eaten it, of course.” 

“Yes — some other day most likely,” said Ascher, remem- 
bering former incidents of the same nature. 

“Yes, it is not even as if the dish were here,” said Mr. 
Carruthers slowly. “So of course it must have been some 
other day. Yet,” he came back to the fireplace, “I could 
have sworn I saw it, and quite recently. I am afraid, 
Ascher, that I must be becoming the victim of delusions.” 

“Never mind it now, sir,” said Ascher, who meantime 
had revived the fire; “I need nothing to eat. I could not 
eat it if I had it. I have far too much to say. And my 
time is very short. I have not, of course, come to stay 
here. I am a fugitive and a wanderer. I must go away 
again immediately after I have said what I have come here 
to say — at the cost of a splendid woman’s regard — of her 
wonderful friendship perhaps — of her inspiring goodwill 
certainly — for when she knows she will utterly despise 
me.” 

“You keep talking about a woman,” said Mr. Carruthers, 
sitting down again, and forgetting from that moment all his 
impulses towards hospitality, so far at least as the tray was 
concerned. “Begin by telling me what woman you mean.” 

“Mrs. Abercrombie,” said Ascher. 

“Ah — a fine woman indeed,” said Mr. Carruthers; “with- 
out any very great intellect perhaps, but with, what is 
more useful in a woman, adaptability and appreciation. 


102 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


She was a friend of my mother’s, and though I have seldom 
seen her since I grew up, she was kind to me as a child. 
She used to read the tales I wrote then — ghost stories — 
they must have been very dull. It was very good of her, 
and I have not forgotten. Mrs. Binnie, by the way, told 
be this afternoon that she was coming here. My sister 
had wired, it seems, to that effect.” 

“She is here,” said Ascher. “I came with her. I was 
in her house in Rathness all last night. She has fed and 
clothed me and warmed my very soul. She has been good- 
ness itself to me.” 

“That is extremely interesting,” said Mr. Carruthers, 
“and it proves just what I have been saying about Mrs. 
Abercrombie’s character. But even I had no idea that she 
was as appreciative and adaptable as that. I had always 
understood from my sister that she was rabidly anti- 
German.” 

“So she is,” said Ascher, very pale. “She would have 
shut her door in my face if she had known. Yet — perhaps 
— if she knew all. May I tell you the whole thing, sir? 
I have come for that and that only. I couldn’t die without 
being sure that you at least understood.” 

“Go on then,” said Mr. Carruthers. “But no — stay a 
moment first. Run down and turn the key in the lock. 
Otherwise we might be interrupted.” 


CHAPTER V 


IN WHICH SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF WHAT TOOK PLACE IN 
MR. CARRUTHERS’S END AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 

“Which of my letters did you get last?” said Ascher, 
when they had settled down at the fire again. 

“It was that from just before Verdun,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers. “There was terrible fighting going on, and you 
wrote to say farewell. You had a presentiment that you 
were about to die.” 

“Which very nearly was fulfilled,” said Ascher. “I was 
as near death then as I have ever been since, and that 
is saying something. I was so badly wounded that I was 
discharged.” 

“Not in the arms or hands I hope,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers, peering down at Ascher’s hands as they hung, 
lightly clasped, before him, his elbows resting on his knees. 

“No,” said Ascher indifferently, “they thought at first 
I was going to die, and told me so, for they don’t mince 
matters in Germany — but they were wrong. I was only 
very lame for a time. My physical wound was nothing 
to my mental injury. I had a horror of great darkness, 
sir, which I cannot describe ” 

“Don’t try to then!” said Mr. Carruthers hastily. 

“I’m not going to,” said Ascher; “but one thing I must 
tell you — Do you remember our talk on the cliffs, that last 
day, when we sat among the gorse, above the sea, in the 
sunshine?” 

“Did you think I would forget, Ascher?” said Mr. 
Carruthers. 

“One knows not what to think now,” he replied bit- 
103 


104 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

terly; “but this will interest you. I was haunted by the 
incidents of that time, by what you had told me of the 
great catastrophe, thousands of years ago, involving horror 
and death and mortal agony that had left no trace. And 
alternating with that I saw again the little colony of ants 
I had seen that day, under the whin-bush, under the golden 
flowers, busy and happy in the sunshine — and I thought 
that I was one of them, and that some irresponsible power, 
as I had been myself that day, was sitting laughing, with a 
boulder in his hand ready-poised . . .” 

“Yes, yes,” interposed Mr. Carruthers, “but ” 

“Let me finish, sir,” said Ascher passionately. “Note 
that the boulder had not yet fallen. Nevertheless, I had 
fought, sir; I had killed men, I had been in the thick of it, 
and, though I was afraid, sir, often afraid, I had done my 
level best ” 

“I know you would, Ascher,” said Carruthers. 

“It was not the memory of the trenches,” Ascher went 
on, and as his excitement increased his voice lowered till 
it was almost a whisper. “It was not the memory of the 
struggle, though that was horrible enough, that overshad- 
owed me. As you know I am very strong physically, sir, 
and I suppose it comes natural for a man to fight. It 
was an extraordinary sense — I told you I could not describe 
it of something sinister looming yet ahead, something 
deeper, darker, more horrible than all the blood and slaugh- 
ter — something that was yet to come. I can only think it 
must have been a presentiment.” 

“Yes, Ascher,” said Mr. Carruthers quietly. “But tell 
me then what you did. There was — you say — nothing in 
your injuries to prevent your playing?” 

“No,” said Ascher, calming a little. “No, sir! And 
God! Didn’t I play when I got back to the Lauenhain!” 

“You went back there?” said Mr. Carruthers. “You 
were allowed?” 

“Yes, I was good for nothing, I suppose,” said Ascher, 
“and they didn’t want weaklings at that time. So they 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 105 

left me at the Forst-haus, which I had to myself, except 
for two of the servants — old Johann and his wife — for both 
my cousins had gone to serve, and my uncle — thank God — 
was dead.” 

“Why do you thank God for your uncle’s death?” said 
Mr. Carruthers. “It was to him was it not that you were 
indebted for your education, even for your time with me 
at Rathness? Though I must say I never liked him,” he 
added. 

“He was a devil,” said Ascher fiercely. “He was a mean 
devil — a type of those who have brought Germany to this 
pass — actively I mean — all of us have helped passively. I 
found it out just before the war began, and I was thankful 
for the war that gave me the chance at least of fighting 
our enemies honestly, and not according to his despicable 
plans. Everything I had had from him I found had been 
given me to an end. He told me so himself when he 
thought the time was ripe. My training at Rugby and 
Cambridge even, which has made me unrecognisable as a 
German, my musical training, which was to give me the 
excuse for wandering about here, there, and everywhere, 
pretending to give concerts, and really spying. . . . Pah! 
He was nauseating and stupid, too. He did not take me — 
me myself — into his reckoning. He forgot while he was 
disguising me in the education of an Englishman what that 
education was. He forgot, too, that I had had a mother, 
and did not realise that I remembered her teaching better 
than anything else in all the world. Ah, my mother was 
a German, sir, but she was out and out a good woman, 
though she was whole-heartedly loyal to her country, to its 
old ideals and traditions. Mercifully she died long before 
the war, and I thank God daily that she has been spared 
the shame and the disgrace of it.” 

“Your country’s defeat certainly seems imminent,” said 
Mr. Carruthers. 

“Defeat!” cried Ascher. “If it were only defeat! Other 
peoples have suffered defeat, but with more glory than 


io6 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

their conquerors. Their defeat meant only inferiority in 
force or in material wealth — it was something merely phys- 
ical — Germany’s defeat is more than that.” 

Mr. Carruthers nodded silently. 

“You know it, sir,” Ascher went on. “To be loyal now 
means to be loyal to a country and a people that are 
doomed to utter damnation, not in a future hell, but here 
on this earth — and what they have suffered already in death 
and misery is as nothing to that which awaits them in the 
world’s contempt.” 

He covered his face with his hands. 

“You were telling me about the Lauenhain,” said Mr. 
Carruthers. “Go on from there. I want to hear the whole 
thing. You were able to play there you say. That must 
have been a relief.” 

“Yes, that, and the belief that I had only a short time 
to live, kept me in a fool’s paradise,” said Ascher. “My 
darkness lightened. I dreamed that I had done with the 
war, that, surging away in either side of me, it never 
more would come near me. Broken as I was, I yet was able 
to forget everything while I was playing. And to forget 
was all I wanted. Old Johann and Marie supplied all my 
material wants, the forest and my piano, my books and my 
music supplied the rest. I was almost happy in a queer, 
groping way. Strange, is it not? Like something half- 
crushed coming back to life before an avalanche annihilates 
it.” 

“Don’t be so vivid,” said Mr. Carruthers suddenly. “You 
— you make me feel rather ill. No, no — I don’t mean that,” 
he added quickly. “Go on from where you were.” 

“How long I was at the Lauenhain I cannot be quite 
sure,” Ascher went on. “I was so ill when I first came 
there, and my way of life made me lose count of time. 
Tremendous events happening all around me did not affect 
my quiet existence. The sound of them did not penetrate 
my forest. I hardly noticed the greater scarcity of food 
and the anxious faces of my two attendants. I had a 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 107 

vague ambition now to become a great pianist, a world 
celebrity as you had prophesied, sir, if I still lived when 
the war was ended. As you see by this time I had become 
entirely selfish. The imminence of death had made me 
so, the urgent need, if I would not go mad, of forgetting 
what I had suffered, and what others were still suffering. 
As I always refused to listen, no one ever spoke to me of 
the war. Even when my cousin Hans, on leave from his 
regiment, came back for a few days to see how things 
were going at the Lauenhain, which now belonged partly to 
him and partly to me, he at first said very little, except that 
he was surprised to see me looking so well. 

“ ‘You will be fit for service again soon,’ he said, and 
I remember that I thought he was joking and laughed. 
He was grave, however. ‘One never knows,’ he said then. 

“On the last night before he left, however — how well I 
remember it! — when we were at supper, I asked for my 
cousin Karl, who was in the Navy, and then, for the first 
time, I heard of the U-boat horror, of the sinking of the 
great passenger ships full of women and children, of the 
hundred and one dastardly and impossible things that had 
been done on the high seas. . . . 

“Oh, you know them all, sir . . . better than I do. . . . 
The whole world knows them. ... All I need to tell you 
is, that that night, as we sat drinking our wine together, 
and to the accompaniment of my cousin’s laughter, I 
heard them all for the first time. I could not realise it, 
and the more I protested and stared, the more he laughed. 

“ ‘Ach du Martin, du bist zu komisch!’ he always re- 
peated. 

“Then, as though he enjoyed my horror, and had not yet 
had enough of it, he told me some of his own adventures — 
in Belgium — in France. . . . 

“Ah, I can see by your face that you know them, too, 
sir. ... I see him now at the table in the old dining- 
room, with the portraits of my mother and of his ancestors' 
and mine, who had been at least men , looking down upon 


io8 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


him sitting there red-faced and hilarious. These have 
never been men/ I said to myself, as he told me with 
gusto and more bursts of laughter of his feats and of those 
of his companions. They have been swine from the be- 
ginning, and now devils are entered into them and are 
rushing them to the abyss.* But I said nothing more aloud. 
I only rose from the table and left him.’* 

Here there was a long pause as Ascher sat again with 
his face hidden. There was no sound in the room but 
his heavy breathing, and the faint crackling of the embers. 
The kettle had been moved away, and sang no more. 

Then suddenly, there came a sound of knocking, insistent, 
persistent, on the outer door. 

Ascher started and looked up. 

“It’s nothing,” said Mr. Carruthers; “it’s only Mrs. 
Binnie or Young Ellen. You turned the key in the lock, I 
hope?” 

“I did,” said Ascher. 

“Then go on,” said Mr. Carruthers. “They’ll soon stop.” 
And he settled himself more comfortably in his chair. 

“I saw no more of my cousin Hans,” Ascher went on. 
“I kept out of his way, and he left next morning. The 
things he had said did not leave with him, however. He 
seemed to have poisoned the very air of the Lauenhain. I 
could no longer be happy there. All my horror of great 
darkness had returned upon me, along with a worse and 
deeper horror of what, in the name of Germany, was now 
actually going forward. In my time we had been brutes, 
perhaps — fighting animals for the time being, but we had 
not been mean and loathsome demons. In comparison with 
what my cousin Hans had told me, the war, as it had 
appeared to me, had been a chivalrous and brave thing. 
We had gone forward together with high courage, shoulder 
to shoulder, to die for our country if need be, as our brave 
enemies were ready to die for theirs. It had been a contest 
of courage. Our men had fought like warriors against 
foes worthy of them — not against unequal odds — not 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED iu 

against — oh, the humiliation of it! — women and children. 
We had played the game. We had not been bounders and 
outsiders. But now 

“The forest had become haunted, even the room where 
my piano was. Through my Chopin and Schumann I 
seemed to hear the shrieks of helpless victims, the cries of 
drowning mothers. In the night sometimes I felt as though 
I were going really mad at last. Old Johann and Marie 
thought so, too, I think. I could hear them lurking about, 
watching me, and this last it was, that drove me from the 
Lauenhain. One day I insisted upon putting on my uni- 
form again. Nothing, I was quite certain, could be so bad 
as waiting there in the dark. I read the papers eagerly 
now, but there was nothing in them but boasts of victories 
and speeches from a Kaiser who made himself and God 
ridiculous. ... I felt I must see clearly — must know for 
certain whether what my cousin had said were true; must 
know how those victories were being won. I read at least 
that the U-boat stories were true. ... I think I must have 
been half delirious when I left the Lauenhain. How I man- 
aged it I cannot tell you, and I would have managed noth- 
ing, I believe, had it not been for Karl Krause, an old com- 
rade whom I met by chance. He thought at first that I was 
a ghost — he had thought I was dead long ago, he said — 
but when I told him what I wanted to do, he thought, like 
Johann and Marie, that I was mad. 

“ ‘Go back to the fighting line?’ he exclaimed. ‘Great 
God, you cannot know what you ask!’ 

“ ‘I do,’ I said, ‘and I know, too, that anything is better 
than being shut out of everything, when my honour is at 
stake.’ 

“ ‘Your honour,’ he laughed, and his laughter reminded 
me of my cousin Hans. ‘I suppose you mean your coun- 
try’s honour.’ 

“ ‘No, mine,’ I said. ‘For it is bound up with that.’ 

“ ‘Well, if you will have it,’ he answered, ‘it can be 


10 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


managed. In fact I am on the look-out for an odd man 
like you/ 

“ ‘Manage then,’ I said. 

“I thought he would have difficulty, but, now I knoW 
why — I was soon told I could have my desire.” 

Here Ascher paused again, and for so long that Mr. 
Carruthers looked away from the fire, into which he had 
been gazing, and glanced furtively at his companion’s face. 

It was ghastly pale, the mouth was open, the eyes fixed 
as though upon some dreadful vision. 

“Tell me no more,” said Mr. Carruthers suddenly. 

“I must,” said Ascher hoarsely. “I must finish to-night, 
for to-morrow I must be gone again. When they come 
knocking again they must be answered. I must finish, but 
I cannot tell you all I would wish — with all the details as 
you used to like me to tell you things — for though I was 
conscious of all of them at the time, some I do not now 
remember, and some are too horrible to tell. All I can say 
is that I arrived in a great city, and was taken to a great 
house and through a beautiful entrance hall down a stair, 
to what I now think of as an ante-chamber of hell. A 
jangling of bells was there — I heard some one say they were 
ship’s ‘bells, though I did not then realise that they were 
the bells of sunken ships. . . . There was a blaze of light 
and a pandemonium of singing and laughter. Some one 
thrust a great beaker of wine into my hand — ‘Drink,’ he 
shouted, ‘for you may be dead soon, and you will be long 
dead.’ I drank mechanically, for I had had no food that 
day, and a sudden feeling of deathly faintness terrified me. 
I feared to fall unconscious in that place. I drank again 
and again, and the wine, I suppose, must have gone to my 
head, for the next thing I remember was the chill of the 
open air, and finding myself going down a sloping gangway, 
supported on either side by a sailor. 

“ ‘Where are you talking me to?’ I said, for, up to that 
moment, my destination had been hidden from me. 

“ ‘Na — don’t you know?’ said the sailor on my right 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED ill] 

‘Do you hear that, Fritz?’ he added to his companion on 
my other side. ‘Here is one — an officer too — that doesn’t 
know where he is going.’ 

“‘Pst!’ returned the other. ‘He needn’t know yet, 
either. The Krause has other fish to fry to-night, and has 
sent him as a substitute.’ 

“‘Du lieber Gott!’ exclaimed the other. ‘No wonder 
so few of us come back!’ 

“‘Pst!’ said the other again. ‘Hold you your tongue, 
comrade.’ 

“At this, however, I stopped short. Not from fear, sir. 
Not from fear of death at least — but of something worse. 

“ ‘Tell me where I am going,’ I said, ‘or I refuse to move 
another step.’ 

“ ‘Certainly, my officer/ sneered the man on my left. ‘I 
have the honour to be ushering your highness into U-boat 
Number — .’ 

“I have forgotten the number. 

“I was determined not to faint. I hit out as hard as I 
could. I lay down. They had to drag me along. I re- 
sisted with all my might. If I had had a revolver I would 
have killed myself, but, half drunk as I was, what could I 
do against two stalwart sailormen? 

“ ‘It’s all no use, sir,’ was the last thing I heard one say 
— the one on the right. ‘You should have found out where 
you were going in better time. Now it is too late.’ 

“Whether I had received a blow on the head in the scuf- 
fle, or whether it was only the wine I cannot tell, but, 
judging by the distance we had gone when I recovered, I 
must have been unconscious for a very long time. When 
I awoke the same sailor, who had spoken last to me, was 
bending over me in the dim light. His face was not un- 
kindly. His words were not unkindly either. He spoke in 
a hoarse whisper. “ ‘Lie still as you are, comrade,’ he 
said. ‘They think you are at the point of death.’ 

“They were not far wrong it seemed to me just then, 
though, as I afterwards found, it was I who was wrong. 


112 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

It seems to be going to be hard for me to die. I am grate- 
ful to that sailor. He was, in spite of everything, not a bad 
sort. He had at least some spark of decency and pity left. 
I believe I owe my life to him. He had evidently been put 
in charge of me, as he came to look at me from time to 
time, and had he been like his fellows he would probably 
have thrown me overboard. For I was absolutely useless, 
I saw nothing, heard nothing most of the time. I lay 
with closed eyes and throbbing head, and the more con- 
scious I became of what had happened to me, the more I 
longed for death. But my sailorman refused to grant my 
prayers that he should kill me. 

“ ‘No, no, comrade/ he said, ‘when we get in again you 
will be released. Have patience. It will not be long. We 
are already on our way back/ 

“ ‘Where are we?’ I said. 

“I cannot think what made me ask it, for, God knows, I 
had no interest in the answer. I think it must have been 
to keep the man by me for a moment longer. His company 
at least was better than my dreadful thoughts. 

“ ‘Near the mouth of the Forth/ he said indifferently, 
‘in the Bay of Rathness/ 

“He said it, sir, as he might have said Hudson’s Bay or 
any other remote place. But you will know how I felt. 

“ ‘We are close in-shore/ he added, ‘but soon we will be 
out again in the open sea. Then it will not be long/ 

“With this he left me. 

“I hardly noticed that he had gone, however. The 
thought of being so near Rathness, Rathness where I had 
spent the happiest time of my life, where we had walked 
and talked, and read and made music together. . . . Rath- 
ness, where old Sandy’s cottage was, with its kindly wel- 
comes, old Sandy himself, his dear old wife, the cheery 
sons and daughters, the old yawl — the ‘Petronella’ — of 
which I had been made the mate. . . . This last, I think, 
was the worst of all. Here was I now under the very place 
where I had voyaged so often in the old days, skulking 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 113 

literally in the depths, an outcast for ever from all I had 
known then. 

“A great longing for the impossible came upon me — I 
longed to see old Sandy and them all once more, though 
I could not hope that I would be able to explain things 
to them, or ever be to them again what I had been. . . . 
But most of all, sir, I longed to see you — not only because 
of the old days, but because of my present distress. The 
more I thought of you, the more the longing grew. You 
seemed to me the one ray of light in the gross darkness 
that surrounded me, the one way of escape from the great 
barrier of condemnation which was enclosing me. I re- 
membered our talks by the fireside, by the sea-shore. I 
remembered what you had said, when I little thought how 
and where I would remember it, of cause and effect, of the 
motives of men — of environment, of fate, of the influences 
of the unseen. You had not spoken as one belonging to any 
nationality. You had spoken as a human being, as one 
to whom all things of the body were unessential, as a mind 
capable of penetrating to the very heart of things. I 
realised that you were the one man to whom I could go, 
sir, who would listen to me as you are doing now, who could 
help me, and as I lay in the depths, literally as well as 
figuratively, I longed for you, sir, as I have never longed 
for anything.” 

Mr. Carruthers held up his hand for silence. 

“That is interesting, Ascher,” he said. “When was 
this?” 

“Only yesterday, sir,” said Ascher. “It must have been 
yesterday morning.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I had a very strong im- 
pression of you then — suddenly — for no reason that I could 
think of — for, I must frankly confess, Ascher, of late I had 
forgotten you — practically forgotten you, at least, my mind 
being much occupied with other things.” 

“I understand that, sir,” said Ascher. “Had I not prac- 


114 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

tically forgotten you? But the mention of Rathness 
brought the whole thing back to me.” 

“Just as my impression — I cannot call it so much as a 
vision,” replied Mr. Carruthers, “recalled the whole thing 
to me, and prepared me for your arrival. When I turned 
round and saw you there a while ago, it seemed — though 
curious — quite natural. I thought of course, however, that 
you were — er — out of the body. For the moment’s reflec- 
tion you allowed me convinced me that it was impossible 
that you could be there otherwise. For, in that case you 
would have had to come either as a spy or a deserter, 
and I could not imagine you in either character.” 

“I knew I was right to come here!” Ascher burst out. 
“I thank you, sir, I thank you a hundred times!” 

“You have not yet told me, however,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers, “how you come to be here. The hiatus between 
the interior of a U-boat and that of Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
drawing-room is a wide one.” 

“I can’t tell you properly myself,” said Ascher. “All I 
know is that even as I was thinking of you with an inten- 
sity that almost amounted to madness because of the 
despair of attainment that was mingled with it, the end 
came, the end of the U-boat I mean, though how or why 
it came just then I shall never know. How or why I 
escaped with my miserable life I do not know either. My 
friend the sailor may have helped, for the last thing I re- 
member is his lifting me in his arms. I never saw him 
again alive. He was beside me, however, when, after the 
fearful crash and blindness and deafness and suffocation, I 
came to again and found myself once more under the open 
heaven lying on my side, and more dead than alive, among 
the seaweed on the Rathness rocks. . . . We had been 
washed up together into a little secret cove, and left there 
by the tide. He was lying very close to me, bruised and 
battered almost beyond recognition, and, because I could 
not help looking at him where I lay, he was the cause of 
my first efforts to move myself. I am glad that I had enough 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 115 

sense of gratitude remaining in me to make me make sure 
that he was really dead before I left him. 

“For myself, though I was bruised and sore and ex- 
hausted to a degree, I was, as you see, intact, and after a 
day spent in dragging myself across from reck to rock, with 
long intervals of sleep or unconsciousness, I don’t know 
which, I at last, in the late afternoon, reached the foot of 
the cliffs. The day was grey with dark lowering clouds. 
Fortunately for me, however, it was very still and mild 
and, in the sheltered places, even warm. I rested in many 
of them on my slow way. By the afternoon I could tell 
where I was. In the distance I could even see the town. 
Flow it was that no one saw me crawling like some strange 
monster from the sea-bottom, in and out among the rocks, 
or lying at full-length among the seaweed, I cannot under- 
stand. Perhaps no one happened to pass; perhaps my 
uniform, stained to the colour of the rocks, prevented 
people seeing me. Certain it is, that by the time dusk be- 
gan to close in I was at a place where, even in the state 
I was in, I could climb to the path at the top of the cliff. 
You remember where we found the blue geraniums? and 
where the spring is? I had a long drink at that spring, 
and, like the wine I had drunk before, it seemed to go to my 
head. This time, however, I became not stupid, but reck- 
less. I was revived as I had never been revived by wine. 
The thought of the Sandies and of you spurred me on, 
and made me somehow recover my strength. I followed 
the path along the top of the cliff and came to Sandy’s 
house. You know, perhaps, what I found there, sir — of 
rather, did not find?” 

Mr. Carruthers nodded. 

“I cannot speak of it yet,” said Ascher. “I saw only old 
Sandy. ... I changed my dripping clothes there and went 
on to your house, where I asked for you and then for your 
sister, and was directed to follow her to Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
house. When I reached there I found that your sister had 
just left, also that I was at the end of my tether. When I 


n6 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

had had food last I could not remember. My visit to old 
Sandy, too, had aroused me from the apathy that had pos- 
sessed me ever since I had found myself on the rocks. I 
was in a suppressed agony of grief and misery. In such 
a state sympathy and kindness bring one sooner than any- 
thing to the breaking-point. I — I behaved, sir, like a fool, 
and she like an angel, or, better still, a mother, and I 
have repaid her goodness with deliberate deceit.” 

He covered his face again. 

“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Carruthers, rubbing his knees with 
his bony hands, and with his head on one side considering 
the fire. “Deceit? What kind of deceit? Go on just 
from where you are.” 

“I tried to tell her who I was,” said Ascher. “Even 
before she had shut the door, but she saw it distressed me, 
and would not listen. Strangely enough she remembered 
having seen me in London before. the war at a concert. I 
had never met her in Rathness.” 

“No, she was away from Rathness all that year,” said 
Mr. Carruthers. “Go on.” 

“We talked of the concert a little,” Ascher went on, “and 
you will understand, sir, how the memory of it at that mo- 
ment affected me. It was like a glimpse back at happiness 
to one in the outer darkness. Then she took me into her 
beautiful drawing-room, with its piled music and its piano 
— and that finished me.” 

“You fainted again?” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“No, but I behaved like a worse fool than before,” said 
Ascher. “But she went and left me to get food, and I 
pulled myself together, and afterwards, when I realised what 
music meant to her, and that there was one thing anyhow 
that I could do for her, I played to her.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Carruthers. Then, after a moment, “You 
managed to play — as you used to do?” 

“In some respects I don’t think I ever played so well,” 
said Ascher. 

“Incredible!” said Mr. Carruthers. 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 117 

“I know it is,” said Ascher. “But there was something 
more helping me, sir, than the mere food and drink, more 
even than the inspiration of her presence. You know, sir, 
what an absorbed and sympathetic audience can make a 
man accomplish ; but there was even more. I felt that this 
might be the last time I would ever play, and the mys- 
terious strength one gets to make a last effort helped me. 
At the end I knew by her face that I had succeeded. I 
had given her an exquisite pleasure, she said, and whatever 
else I might or might not be, she did not want to know it, 
— for as an artist she welcomed me.” 

“Bravo, Mrs. Abercrombie!” exclaimed Mr. Carruthers. 
“Though it is only what one might have expected from 
Archibald Abercrombie's wife. But now, my dear Ascher, 
where does the deception come in? It seems to me that 
if there is any anywhere it is not your fault, but Mrs. 
Abercrombie’s.” 

“No, sir, it is my fault,” said Ascher. “I have allowed 
her to deceive herself and even others, by my silence. My 
only excuse is that she had, in a manner, taken possession, 
of me before I came to myself. I only really came to myself 
this morning, and, as I lay in bed, I reflected that to go on 
to the end now was the best course. She had offered to 
take me to you, and, once with you, I knew the thing would 
settle itself. I have had a strange feeling all day, too, that 
nothing is of consequence. I feel as I felt that time they 
told me that I would die soon, that nothing I can do or say 
can really matter to anyone — that I have nothing to gain 
and nothing to lose, and that even Mrs. Abercrombie, when 
she knows all, cannot, if she considers everything, be very 
angry with me.” 

“My dear Ascher,” said Mr. Carruthers, “if Mrs. Aber- 
crombie is the woman I take her to be — a sensible woman 
of the world — she will not be angry. I am quite sure 
she is more artist than anti-German, if by anti-German is 
meant a person rabidly against all Germans simply be- 
cause they are Germans; and she is more kind woman 


\n8 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

than either. ... So you travelled here with her? . . . 
Strange . . . and you met no one else who recognised 
you?” 

“Not that I know of,” said Ascher, “though I made no 
effort to conceal myself. I was past that. I only changed 
at old Sandy’s to get rid of my wet clothes. My uncle’s 
disguise as an Englishman, however, served me well. That 
and sheer luck brought me here. The whole thing reminds 
me of something I once saw in the midst of the traffic of a 
crowded thoroughfare, in the days when one had time to 
notice such things. A snail — not an ant this time, sir — a 
snail, without its shell even, was proceeding in the leisurely 
manner of snails across the road. I had not time to stop 
and lift it into safety, and when I returned to the same 
spot half an hour later I remembered it, and expected to 
find its journey cut short. But no — though a hundred or so 
of feet had probably just missed it — there it was at the 
other side. It had reached its destination.” 

I “As you have reached yours, my dear Ascher,” said Mr. 
Carruthers. “And now that you have given me your views 
on your lamentable position as a patriot and an honourable 
man — may I give you mine?” 

“They are what I have come for,” said Ascher eagerly. 

“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Carruthers, rubbing his knees 
again, “I suppose you expect that they won’t agree with 
yours at all?” 

“Won’t agree?” exclaimed Ascher. 

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Carruthers. “You come to 
me, you say, not because I am a Briton, but because I 
am a human being. Very well, then, I address you not 
as a German but as a human being.” 

“I see,” said Ascher. “But, sir ” 

“You will excuse my being very plain with you, Ascher,” 
said Mr. Carruthers, “and not be offended if I begin by 
saying that I really cannot see the need for being melo- 
dramatic about this.” 

“Melodramatic!” said Ascher* flushing. 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 119 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers. “Remember that I am 
speaking to you not as a German but as a human being. 
You have a right to be angry with your fate — and at being 
plunged into all this misery — unnecessary misery most of it, 
however — as I will show you presently, but yet, for the time 
being — misery. You have a right to be extremely angry 
with it, but I cannot see why you should succumb to it.” 

“I had not thought of succumbing to it,” said Ascher 
proudly. 

“You talked of dying,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“Is not that rather defying it?” said Ascher. “If I 
refuse to live branded as a German?” 

“But why should you live branded?” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers. “No one, unless he were told, would know you 
were a German. You need never go back to Rathness, 
where, of course, you might be recognised. I have no inten- 
tion for the present of returning to Rathness myself. I 
am engaged here upon a very interesting investigation, in 
which you could be of the greatest service to me. Now, 
say nothing yet,” Mr. Carruthers went on hastily, as 
Ascher was about to speak. “Wait till you have heard 
more of what I have to say. The German nation, I con- 
sider, have forfeited all claim upon you. But I cannot 
see why, because they deserve nothing of you, you should 
make up your mind to do nothing for the world at large.” 

“How can I,” said Ascher passionately, “when the world 
at large despises me?” 

“My dear Ascher,” said Mr. Carruthers, “if you calm 
yourself and think for one single moment you will remem- 
ber what the despised have already done for the world.” 

“I know, I know,” said Ascher wildly; “but they were 
the undeservedly despised. The one thing left to me as a 
German is my loyalty. If I cast Germany off in her de- 
gradation, I shall be deservedly despised. No, Mr. Car- 
ruthers — it is no good saying that I am not a German but 
a human being. I am a German. My mother — the one 


120 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

person I have ever really loved in this world — was pas- 
sionately a German. I can never forget that.” 

“Then,” said Mr. Carruthers, “you consider it more 
loyal to submit tamely with the rest to your country’s 
punishment, than to help to retrieve your country’s glory 
by taking part in one of the greatest discoveries of the 
age?” 

“What do you mean, sir?” said Ascher wearily. 

“Ah!” said Mr. Carruthers, “it is you who have forgot- 
ten, Ascher! We spoke of it on that afternoon among 
the gorse — above the sea — in the sunshine. Our whole 
conversation, indeed, led up to it.” 

“Surely,” exclaimed Ascher, interested in spite of every- 
thing, “surely, sir, you cannot mean the Vision — the quest 
after the Soul-Memory of the writing on the wall?” 

“Nothing else,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“Do you mean to say, sir, that you have been going on 
with it all this time?” cried Ascher. 

Mr. Carruthers laughed. 

“Is five years so long a time to give,” he said, “for the 
solution of an age-old problem? In a manner you are right 
to be surprised however, Ascher. It should have been 
solved long ago, but for abominable interruptions. . . . 
Not the war,” he went on hastily, as Ascher was about to 
speak. “I evaded my responsibilities there, having, as I 
believed, my own special responsibility. Not that I could 
have fought anyhow — I was assured of that — so that my 
conscience was salved, fortunately for it, because I should 
have done what I wanted to do in spite of it. But I could 
have made munitions, I suppose, or taken some one else’s 
place, or done something I had never done before, and done 
it so that it would far better have been left undone . . . 
I did not ... I shut myself up. I tried, as you say, my 
level best to carry on my special mission, but the shadow 
of the great darkness was over me, too, Ascher. I have 
accomplished in these five years extraordinarily little.” 

“But you have accomplished something, sir?” said Ascher, 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 121] 


unconsciously assuming the role of confidante and comforter 
that Mr. Carruthers had laid down. 

“Yes — a certain amount,” said Mr. Carruthers. “And 
one thing I am now sure of, I am on the right track. My 
only fear now is that some one may anticipate me, though 
that, of course, is small-minded in me, and unworthy of an 
investigator. But the idea is in the air . . . my own 
thoughts, indeed, may have generated it. ... Not long 
since I came upon a little book entitled ‘The Gate of Re- 
membrance/ in which was described the finding, by occult 
means, of certain buried chapels, whose existence had been 
long forgotten, in the ruins of Glastonbury. That is to say, 
by tapping what I have called the Soul-Memory, to whom 
past existences are known, knowledge was gathered which 
was otherwise unobtainable. . . . Other architectural dis- 
coveries are probably now being made by the same means. 
But, when you come to think of it, Ascher, how much more 
wonderful is our quest! We, looking down into the depths 
of the ages, desire to discover, not where men have lived, 
not even where they have worshipped, but what they have 
thought, how they have rejoiced, how they have suffered, 
what they have themselves discovered. Who knows what' 
wisdom may not lie behind the strange undecipherable char- 
acters of the ancient script, whose possession might enrich 
and enlighten the world? The discovery alone of the avail- 
ability of our means of investigation, if thus established, 
would open up a new era in the history of occult science.” 
j “Yes,” said Ascher, “but ” 

| “But,” Mr. Carruthers interrupted him, “you ask how 
you can help me? I answer simply by staying here for a 
time and acting as padding between me and the outer world, 
by which I mean at present those kind people at the other 
end of this house. They are now reinforced by Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, who, I strongly suspect, has been sent here by my 
sister — perhaps at the request of good Mrs. Binnie, who is 
distressed at the irregularity with which I take my meals. 
. . . Now, Ascher, I ask you — as one who has seen some- 


122 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


thing of investigation work — how in the world am I to get 
on if people are always coming in and saying it is dinner- 
time and tea-time, and so on, when I am in the midst of 
really important things? How would you like if you were 
just beginning to get splendid results in automatic writing, 
if some one appeared at your elbow reiterating something 
about soup? I assure you that between Mrs. Binnie and 
Young Ellen and now Mrs. Abercrombie, I shall never have 
a chance. It is not, you see, as if their personal interference 
were all. It is their worrying and being anxious in my 
neighbourhood that is the really distracting thing. They 
are literally — though they don’t know it, poor souls — killing 
me with kindness, at least, killing my investigation. Well, 
now, Ascher, I am sure that you must now see how you can 
help me. You can remove all this annoyance, tangible and' 
intangible. Mrs. Abercrombie knows you and has evidently 
taken a fancy to you. You, in your turn, can take all this 
burden of the care of me off her shoulders, and, in another 
sense, off mine. If you agree to this, your coming will, I 
consider, be the turning-point in the history of this investi- 
gation. I shall thus be enabled to go on without interrup- 
tion, either from people coming to look after me at short 
intervals, or from the mental distress of these people regard- 
ing me which continually pursues and often totally upsets 
me.” 

“But, my dear Mr. Carruthers,” began Ascher, smiling a 
little in spite of himself. 

“I know what you are going to say,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers. “You are going to say that this is bathos. You 
come to me to put a situation before me, which for diffi- 
culty and horror could hardly be surpassed. You ask my 
advice as to what you should do, and I reply by recom- 
mending you to do, here and now, what you doubtless con- 
sider to be a trifling, nay, a trivial service. But now, I 
ask you — putting aside all the benefit, and mind it may be 
incalculable, which will accrue to the world should my 
.investigation succeed — what more could you be doing for 


AFTER THE DOOR WAS LOCKED 123 

your country at present than you would be doing here get- 
ting strong and well, mentally and physically fit? You 
came to me once before on the verge of nervous collapse — ? 
or at least so your uncle said — and I cured you. How?, 
Simply by taking you out of yourself. . . .You come to 
me again. I will cure you again, make you ready — again 
by taking you out of yourself — for whatever you wish to 
attempt. Last time — you admit it yourself — you went 
forth to fight, chivalrously I doubt not, your body strong 
enough, or you could never have come through what you 
have come through, but with your nerves in such a state 
that you were utterly incapable of carrying out your task. 
... You fainted constantly at crucial moments — you were 
borne into infamous positions. . . . 

“One does not, of course, value the opinion of a U-boat 
commander either as a commander or as a human being, 
but consider what sort of an opinion yours must have had 
of you. You were of no more use to him than a log. In- 
deed you were very much worse than useless, for in the 
endeavour to save you, which he would never have made 
for a log, the only decent man on the vessel was battered 
and bruised to death. I ask you again — what was the 
good of that? And if you go back as you are now the 
same thing will happen again. As I look at you I can see it. 
It takes no expert to do that. You are far too thin. Your 
eyes are too bright; your lips, even your hands tremble 
when you speak. . . . Yet — confound you, Ascher! — never 
did the Germans need a man — a leader with just your qual- 
ities — more than they do now. They have no great men 
just now, they have only great mountebanks, great brutes, 
great fools to engineer them, and that’s why they have gone 
off the rails. If you must be a German, then be at least 
their great man — their Cromwell — their Danton — what you 
will — but able to speak, able to lead, able to inspire, able to 
fight. . . . While you are in your present state you are no 
use for any of these things. ... But, as before, I will 
cure you — I will prepare you — only give me time. And, 


[124 the man with the lamp 

I 

for the present, stay here I implore you. . . . Even if you 
managed to get back to the Lauenhain, which I very much 
idoubt would be impossible, you could not, you know you 
could not, really get better there. Here at least you will 
have the satisfaction of knowing that you are being ex- 
tremely useful in the interval until you recover your bal- 
ance. You will, by your playing, charm the other end into 
quiescence. You will take entire charge of me. I shall 
put myself under your care. No one but you shall enter 
this room or know when I take my meals. I shall at once 
settle up your debts to Mrs. Abercrombie, and, when you 
wish to return to your country, I shall lend you what you 
need. In the meantime, I counsel you to remain simply 
what you are, an artist, as Mrs. Abercrombie said. After- 
wards — when you are well again — sane, mentally and phys- 
ically — be a German again if you please, a great German, 
the greatest of all the Germans that ever were.” 

| “Mr. Carruthers,” said Ascher, “whether this is bathos or 
not I cannot tell. As you have said, I am hardly sane just 
now, and I can’t think. But I do know it is kindness, and 
I thank you from my heart. May I give you my answer 
to-morrow — when I— niter I have slept?” 


CHAPTER VI 

IN WHICH MRS. ABERCROMBIE IN THE ACT OF SETTLING 
DOWN RECEIVES A SHOCK FROM AN UNEXPECTED QUARTER 

The knocking which disturbed, or rather did not disturb, 
the nocturnal conclave in Mr. Carruthers’s end, was caused 
not only by Young Ellen but by Mrs. Binnie, who had been 
called up as reinforcement. 

When both had failed to elicit any response and had 
grown weary of knocking they retired a few paces from 
the house, and, looking up at the windows of Mr. Car- 
ruthers’s study, where the light glimmered faintly through 
a grey-green curtain, they stood still to discuss the situation 
and take counsel together as to what should next be done. 

“This is desperate,” said Mrs. Binnie. “We canna let 
him keep the key ony mair. To think o’ him shut in there 
withoot a supper or a proper tea or even a denner, for 
the pie was for his denner. He never lockit hissel’ in like 
that afore.” 

“No,” said Young Ellen, “an’ mind ye, auntie, I dinna 
ken if we shouldna speak aboot it.” 

“Speak aboot it?” said Mrs. Binnie. 

“Ay, to Mrs. Abercrombie,” said Young Ellen. “I dinna 
think we should be responsible for leavin’ him his lane 
there a’ nicht — lockit in.” 

Mrs. Binnie considered for a moment. 

“Maybe ye’re richt,” she said. “A’ the same,” she added, 
“if she was to ask ony questions, it wouldna be easy to ex- 
plain aboot that pie.” 

“We needna tell her aboot that,” said Young Ellen. 

“Ay, we’re bound to tell her,” said her aunt. “It’s him 
125 


126 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


bein’ left withoot his meat that’s the maitter, ye see, an 7 
unless ye let her ken that, she would think we had nae 
sense cornin’ botherin’ her when she’s tired.” 

“Aweel he maun jist be left, then,” said Young Ellen, 
“for we canna tell her that we took the pie awa frae him.” 

“No’ unless we tell her aboot Dash Forgan,” said her 
aunt. 

“An’ that we canna dae,” said Young Ellen. 

“We’ll chance it, then,” said Mrs. Binnie. 

They chanced it, therefore, and went back to their kit- 
chen, which they now had to themselves. 

“We’ve nae choice,” said Mrs. Binnie, as she raked out 
the grate in preparation for the night. “For mind ye, Ellen, 
yon micht ha’ been a fell job wi’ Dash.” 

“It was that,” said Ellen, as she put away the spoons. 
“It pits ye aff ha’in’ a sodger for a man. Fancy him sus- 
pectin’ Mirny o’ rinnin’ awa’ wi’ anither man an’ her the 
mither o’ his seeven bairns!” 

“Ah, that’s jist because he’s that fond o’ her,” said Mrs. 
Binnie, winding up the clock for it was Saturday night. 
“It’s jist men that doesna care twa straes for their wifes 
that isna jealous o’ them.” 

“A’ the same it’s a kind o’ pit me aff Bob,” said Ellen, 
taking off her butterfly bow and thoughtfully fingering it. 
^He’s anither o’ that jealous kind, aye glowerin’ an’ 
glumshin’. If he doesna tak’ care he’ll mak’ me tak’ Dun- 
widdie.” 

“Ah well, Ellen,” said her aunt, “I promised auld Lind- 
say tae pit the maitter o’ the mairriage afore ye, but that 
doesna mean, ye ken, that ye maun tak’ Bob. I kent 
naething aboot Dunwiddie when I said that.” 

“Then ye’re no’ agin Dunwiddie, auntie?” said Ellen. 

“Agin Peter Dunwiddie?” said Old Ellen. “No’ likely.” 

“He’s weel enough aff, I suppose?” said Young Ellen. 

“No’ far off wealthy,” said Old Ellen with unction. “An’ 
though he’s auld-like, certainly, whiles they’re better auld 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


127 

than young. They say an auld man’s darlin’, ye ken, an’ 
a young man’s slave.” 

“I wish he hadna askit me,” said Young Ellen. 

“Bob d’ye mean?” inquired her aunt. 

“No, Dunwiddie,” said Ellen. “If he hadna askit me, I 
never would ha’ thocht o’ him.” 

“Ay, twa men coortin’ ye at ae time is an awfu’ worry,” 
said Old Ellen, reminiscently shaking her head at the clock, 
which she had just finished winding up. 

“Ye see I’m rale fond o’ Bob,” said Young Ellen. “If 
I was aye to be spry an’ licht-hearted I would much rayther 
ha’ Bob. But there’s nae denyin’ that Dunwiddie would be 
a comfortabler man, an’ he wouldna lord it ower me the 
way Bob would dae, he would be that prood o’ me.” 

“Ay, an’ there’s the shop,” said Old Ellen, as she set the 
meal to soak for the morning’s porridge. “A fairm’s a’ 
verry weel, but ye’re awfu’ dependent on the weather. Gi’e 
me a grocer’s for stabeelity, whaur ye ha’ a’ yer belongin’s 
under cover.” 

“Yet I would rayther ha’ the fairm,” said Young Ellen. 
“I dinna like the smell 0’ a grocer’s shop. An’ I dinna like 
to see Dunwiddie wi’ his apron on an’ his sleeves rolled up. 
He looks that saft an’ auld-wifie like.” 

“Aweel, Ellen,” said her aunt, “ye’ll ha’ to mak’ up 
yer mind afore long. I promised auld Lindsay I would see 
at ye aboot the weddin’, an’ let him ken what day ye 
wantit it, next Setterday when I gang back.” 

“That’s anither thing,” said Young Ellen. “If I mairried 
Dunwiddie I wouldna ha’, livin’ in the hoose wi’ him an’ me, 
an auld miser 0’ an uncle aye interferin’.” 

“For the love o’ God, lassie,” exclaimed Old Ellen, “gang 
awa’ to yer bed noo, an’ guid nicht to ye. Maybe it’ll be 
shown ye in a dream which is the richt man.” 

“Maybe,” said Young Ellen, but she said it doubtfully, 
and she was still standing cogitating at the table when she 
was startled by a sudden and loud knocking at the outer 
door. 


128 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“See wha that is, Ellen,” called her aunt, rather unneces- 
sarily, from the top landing where she had just arrived. 

Next moment the door was open and Young Ellen, hold- 
ing a flaring candle, was face to face with the visitor. 

“Mr. Carruthers!” she gasped. 

It was none other, and he was hatless, collarless, in his 
oldest coat, as he had risen from his writing. 

“Good evening,” he said, unaware, or unheeding, that it 
was long past midnight. “I have come to see Mrs. Aber- 
crombie.” 

“But I’m afraid, sir,” began Young Ellen. 

“Tell her if you please that it is an urgent matter,” said 
Mr. Carruthers, “and that I shall be obliged if she will 
spare me a few minutes.” 

“I’ll tell her, Ellen,” came Mrs. Binnie’s voice from the 
top landing. 

“Will ye come in, sir, and wait a minute?” said Young 
Ellen, ushering him into the kitchen, and bringing forward 
a chair, “till I see if Mrs. Abercrombie ” 

“Then pray do so at once,” said Mr. Carruthers, sitting 
down, “and kindly tell her that my time is limited.” 

“An’ he sat doon there, auntie, as if it was one o’clock 
in the day instead o’ one o’clock in the mornin’,” Young 
Ellen said afterwards. At the moment, however, Mrs. Bin- 
nie was too occupied with Mrs. Abercrombie to hear her 
niece’s report. 

She had found her, after her thirty-six hours of almost 
continuous exertion, established before the sitting-room fire 
enjoying the sweets of well-earned repose. She had ex- 
changed her black travelling dress for a passe but still 
sumptuous kimono, her hair was in two plaits, her slip- 
pered feet were on the fender. In one hand she held a fire- 
screen, in the other a cigarette. 

Mrs. Binnie’s eyebrows resembled Young Ellen’s as her 
glance fell upon this last item. Only for a moment, how- 
ever, for Mrs. Binnie, as she was always reminding her 
niece, had been in good service and had learned to know 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


129 

her place. She could not help some of her amazement 
appearing, however, when, on Mr. Carruthers’s visit being 
announced, her lodger said: 

“Mr. Carruthers? Certainly. Show him up.” 

“But — the time o’ nicht,” Old Ellen reminded her. “And 
your hair, M’m.” 

“Will he ever notice it?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

As she spoke, however, she placed her cigarette between 
her lips and, picking up a black lace scarf from a table 
near, she flung it on mantilla-wise. 

“Now,” she said, removing the cigarette again that she 
might smile unhindered at her mentor. “Les convenances 
are propitiated.” 

This Old Ellen, without understanding a word of it, took 
to mean that the caller was to be admitted. She with- 
drew, therefore, to execute the order, and in a few moments 
Mr. Carruthers was announced. 

“How do you do, James,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, ad- 
vancing to meet him with outstretched hand. “I am de- 
lighted to see you and still more delighted at being seen 
by you. Last time we met you appeared to be absorbed 
in some telegraph wires above my head. I was literally be- 
neath your notice.” 

“I am sorry,” said Mr. Carruthers gravely, coming for- 
ward to take the seat by the fire she indicated. “I fear 
that in social qualities, as in many other things, I am 
deficient.” 

“Not at all, my dear James,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
resuming her fire-screen. “On the contrary you have come 
to call upon me before — socially speaking — it was really 
necessary.” 

“Ah, but that was because I wanted to talk to you,” said 
Mr. Carruthers. 

“Better and better,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“What more complimentary speech could be made to an old 
woman? Talk on then, my dear James, but do have a 
cigarette first.” 


130 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Thank you,” he said, selecting one from the box while 
he fixed his impersonally meditative gaze steadily upon his 
hostess’s face. “It was about my friend Ascher that I came 
to speak,” he added. 

“The very thing I want to hear,” said Mrs. Abercrombie 
eagerly. “Who is Ascher, James?” 

Mr. Carruthers did not answer at once but sat on in 
silence, his eyes still fixed upon hers. 

“Yet I am sure that he does not even notice what I 
have on or not on,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to herself, and 
partly to test him, partly because it was so hot, she took 
off the mantilla again and reappeared in her two plaits. 
The result was as she had expected it to be. James never 
even blinked, and they sat on for what seemed an age, as 
they had been, before he spoke. 

All this time he was debating with himself whether or 
not he should tell Mrs. Abercrombie the whole truth. 

When he had made up his mind, after leaving Ascher 
asleep in his own bed, to come and arrange his affairs at 
once, he had had no idea of doing anything of the sort. 
Indeed, the real reason of his coming at that unusual hour 
was not only because he did not know the time, but because 
the Intangible Annoyance was so intense, that he had found 
it impossible to go on with his work. 

It would be interesting here if we had time to analyse 
the discomfort of Mr. Carruthers, and to ascertain how 
much of it came from outside him, and how much from 
inside. Probably a very large part of it was hunger,’ 
though this of course he did not take into consideration 
at all. He had missed three successive meals that day, 
and this, together with the consciousness that his not 
answering the knocking and moreover locking himself in 
would be causing acute anxiety, not to say irritation, at 
the other end, absolutely blocked him. He could do noth- 
ing but sit staring before him, wasting time. At last, in 
despair, therefore, he had done what he had never done 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 131 

before, and had come to make a call at Mrs. Binnie’s 
end. 

Now, however, Mrs. Abercrombie’s cordial reception and 
kindly good-comradeship suddenly caused him to see things 
from Ascher’s point of view. Would it be better, he won- 
dered, on Ascher’s account, to sweep away all false pre- 
tences, at least between Mrs. Abercrombie and him? to 
relate Ascher’s whole story to this kindly woman of the 
world, trusting to her sane judgment, her broad-mindedness, 
her artistic sense? 

For about half a minute — so quickly are those crises 
decided of which no one in the world but the individual 
who is experiencing them is aware — for about half a 
minute Mr. Carruthers was on the point of making a clean 
breast of it. 

Then, however, he remembered (for, when he cared to 
use them, he had a memory and a power of observation 
second to none) — he remembered what his sister had told 
him of Mrs. Abercrombie’s anti-German feeling, of her 
speech which had become famous, of her appointment as 
president of the Rathness branch of the British Empire 
Union. Clearly, however sympathetic to Ascher she might 
be, in the capacities of art-enthusiast and human being, as 
publicly anti-German she could not possibly be so, and to 
release Ascher from his false position by explaining every- 
thing to her would make it impossible for her to do any- 
thing but denounce him. To have him denounced would 
be to have him deported, and to have him deported would 
be a serious inconvenience at this juncture. Besides, as 
Ascher had realised, James Carruthers, occult as he was, 
was very human. His house was divided against itself. 
What he called outside influences were often the sugges- 
tions of his own altruism. To have Ascher cast out now, 
disgraced and discredited, he felt would plunge him — 
Carruthers — into a whirlpool of intangible miseries which 
would wholly incapacitate him, and postpone indefinitely 
the end of his investigations. This, too, at the very time 


132 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

when Ascher would be most useful to him by keeping at bay 
the hindrances already present. The thought of the tab- 
lets at Knossos, and the probable shortness of his own 
existence quite decided him. 

“Ascher,” he said, resuming his cigarette, which had 
almost gone out, “is a former pupil of mine.” 

“I know,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, disappointed. 

“He had looked,” she said afterwards, “as if he were 
going to be so interesting.” 

“I know,” she repeated after a moment, when no more 
information seemed to be forthcoming. 

“He has had dreadful experiences in the war,” Mr. Car- 
ruthers went on, “and is now suffering from shock, which 
is principally mental.” 

“Poor man,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “I thought so. 
He is a great artist,” she added after a moment. “I have 
heard no playing like his, in a room, for many years.” 

“He intended to be a professional,” said Mr. Carruthers, 
“before — before his country claimed his services.” 

“As a soldier?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “I should 
have thought he would not have been strong enough?” 

“On the contrary, he is very strong,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers. “His physical delicacy at present is due to terrible 
wounds — internal injuries — received when he was on active 
service.” 

“On active service?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “Oh, 
where? I wonder if he can have met any of my nephews! ” 

“Very possibly,” said Mr. Carruthers, knocking ashes off 
the end of his cigarette. 

“I must find out to-morrow,” cried Mrs. Abercrombie ex- 
citedly, “if he was on the Western Front.” 

Here, however, Mr. Carruthers held up his hand for 
silence. 

“Mrs. Abercrombie,” he said, “that is why I have come 
to you. Ascher ’s injuries, as possibly you may have ob- 
served for yourself, are not only physical but mental.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie nodded silently. 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


133 

“His mental sufferings have been,” Mr. Carruthers went 
on, “and still are very great. At times he is not far 
off ” 

He waved his cigarette expressively. 

“Oh, yes, poor dear, I know,” exclaimed Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, flinging hers into the fire in an access of sym- 
pathy. “I shall never forget last night — and his terrible 
sobbing. It was enough to break one’s heart. His dis- 
tress appealed to me somehow very specially.” She went 
on dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “He reminded 
me so of Archie — of my boy-husband — none of the nephews, 
you know, play — and he played so very beautifully. Some- 
how I had never realised before how the war could affect 
such as he — how that thrice damned prince of hell the 
Kaiser has destroyed and injured among so many exquisite 
things, irreplaceable objets d’art, so many also of the ex- 
quisitely and rarely gifted.” 

“Fortunately, however,” said Mr. Carruthers eagerly, 
throwing away his cigarette also, “Ascher is not yet wholly 
destroyed. Fortunately he has come to me — to you, Mrs. 
Abercrombie, before it is too late to save him. If we can 
keep his mind off his terrible sufferings, if we can distract 
his attention from the past, if, above all, we can interest 
him once more in his musical studies — we shall have pre- 
served him, at least from the general wreck.” 

“Yes, thank God,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, giving 
her eyes a final dab. “Well then — tell me straight off, 
James — what I can do to help you.” 

“Bravo!” said Mr. Carruthers. “But I knew I could 
count upon your goodness.” 

“Goodness?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “It is not that. 
Apart from its being a very real pleasure to me to come 
into touch at all with such an artist as Mr. Ascher is — I 
would do anything to thwart those worse than savages 
that ” 

“You mean the Germans, I suppose,” interrupted Mr. 


134 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Carruthers, smiling a little. “Well, of course, that motive 
is not a Christian one.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “we have been told to 
love our enemies, but the Germans are too large an order. 
It would take Christ Himself to love them” 

“You are right,” said Mr. Carruthers, “speaking in the 
aggregate, you are perfectly right. But now about this par- 
ticular — about Ascher, I have had a long talk with him. He 
has told me — all that he had to tell, and believe me, Mrs. 
Abercrombie, if you knew all, you would be even more 
anxious to help him than you now are.” 

“That is impossible,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I could 
not be more anxious to help him.” 

“Listen, then,” said Mr. Carruthers. “What Ascher 
needs is, first, full and responsible employment, and second, 
distraction from his own sad thoughts. With the first I 
mean to provide him. The second, with your permission, 
I shall leave to you.” 

“Yes, yes!” said Mrs. Abercrombie eagerly. 

“His employment is to be looking after me,” said Mr. 
Carruthers. “I am engaged just now upon a very interest- 
ing and important investigation with nothing less in view, 
in fact, than the discovery of the meaning of the inscrip- 
tions on the Knossos tablets.” 

“But how fearfully exciting,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, flinging back her two plaits like a school-girl of fifteen/ 
“I know all about Knossos. Archie and I were there once. 
Those Minoans are so interesting! To think of their 
women thousands of years ago dressing very much as we 
do to-day, and that perhaps Delilah had a hat and frills, for 
the Philistines were Minoans, too, weren’t they? But do 
tell me,” she went on without waiting for a reply, “do you 
think you are succeeding?” 

“I cannot tell yet,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“Oh, but you must , you know!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“Why, it would be one of the discoveries of the age! It 
would do something to make up for all the time that has 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


135 

been wasted, all the research that has been neglected. Oh, 
James, do pull it off !’ 7 

“My dear Mrs. Abercrombie ,’ 7 said Mr. Carruthers, “I 
am delighted to find you so interested.” 

“Interested!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. “I am more than 
that — I am absorbed. You know Archie — my husband — 
always used to say that I ought to have been an 
explorer.” 

“He was right,” exclaimed Mr. Carruthers, “enthusiasm 
like yours would carry a man to the heart of the antarctic. 
I am singularly fortunate in having secured your co-opera- 
tion. What you have to do now, Mrs. Abercrombie, is to 
leave me entirely to Ascher.” 

“I see,” said Mrs. Abercrombie at once, but her face fell 
nevertheless. 

“He has accepted all the responsibility for me and my 
meals,” Mr. Carruthers went on. “I wish, henceforth, no 
one but Ascher to enter or so much as approach my writ- 
ing-room. I wish, when Ascher is not there, to be left 
entirely alone.” 

“All right, James,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, but she said 
it disconsolately. “You are quite sure I can’t do any- 
thing?” she added tentatively after a moment. “Remem- 
ber how I used to read your ghost stories.” 

Mr. Carruthers laughed. 

“I certainly owe you something for that,” he replied. 
“But indeed I am asking you to do a great deal, I am 
handing over to you first Mrs. Binnie and Young Ellen — 
who have been the greatest obstacle so far to the success 
of my Investigation ” 

“The greatest obstacle?” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. “But 
I thought they were so devoted to you. I am sure their 
letter ” 

“That’s just it,” said Mr. Carruthers; “they are devoted, 
and their devotion hampers me — not that I am ungrateful 
you understand — but their devotion takes the form of con- 
stant insistence upon meals ” 


136 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“I see, I see,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “They in- 
trude — they interrupt — I quite understand, James. You 
leave ’em to me.” 

“I will,” said Mr. Carruthers heartily, “and I leave 
Ascher too. His duties to me will be very light. He will 
merely have to present meals to me, sufficient to sustain 
life, at what he thinks the right times. By right times, of 
course, I mean not the ordinary meal hours, but the hours 
when he sees I have come, in my Investigation, to what 
he would call a double bar, or, in other words, some cul- 
minating point.” 

“I see, I see,” said Mrs. Abercrombie again, “and at all 
the other times?” 

“He will be practically free,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I 
wish you to make him practise if you can — this is quite a 
decent piano I hear — to talk to him, to amuse him, to bring 
him, in short, back to sanity of mind and body.” 

“But won’t the practising disturb you?” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, whom the Investigation still absorbed, to the detri- 
ment even of her interest in Ascher. “You will be able, 
won’t you, to hear it through the wall?” 

“I hope so,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I am practising auto- 
matic writing at present, for which purpose I prefer to have 
my mind distracted, so that my hand may be placed unre- 
servedly at the disposal of my Higher Intelligence.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie gave a little shiver of appreciation. 

“Oh, James, how delightfully weird!” she said. “Higher 
Intelligence — / see. Well, I’ll attend to Ascher.” 

According to promise, therefore, instead of staying in 
bed for breakfast, as both Ellens implored her to do next 
morning, Mrs. Abercrombie rose at her usual time, though 
it had been two o’clock, if it was a minute, as Young 
Ellen reported next morning to her aunt, before Mr. Car- 
ruthers left for his own end again. 

She then, before breakfasting herself, insisted upon going 
round to Mr. Carruthers’s end, where she found the door, 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


137 

unlocked, according to plan, and the Investigator hard at 
work. 

He had not been to bed at all, first because Ascher was 
occupying his bed, and second because his Higher Intelli- 
gence seemed to be in the vein that night. He had had 
excellent results in the automatic writing, and was in such 
high good humour, and so amenable in consequence, that 
Mrs. Abercrombie actually persuaded him to come back 
with her to breakfast. 

“He has had one good meal anyhow,” she said to herself 
as, about two hours later, he went back to his own end 
again, promising to send Ascher over to her whenever he 
appeared. 

She stayed in the house all day waiting for Ascher, except 
for half an hour or so spent in viewing the Dove-cote from 
outside. 

“It is really like a dove-cote,” she wrote to Reggie when 
she came in. “Two three-storied gable-ends, with a chim- 
ney-stack in the middle, and doors on either side. Mrs. 
Binnie tells me her grandfather built it. He seems to have 
built, or rebuilt, or pulled down, most of Wood End, and 
to have had a fancy for having everything at unexpected 
angles. This little red and brown village, with its gardens 
and bushes and its one wiggly street, looks as though it had 
been dropped accidentally by some giant in the middle of 
the wood. Even its name Wood End is a mistake. It is 
not at the end of the wood but in the middle, or between 
two woods, which hedge it in from all the world. Its 
station is the only part of it to which its name can apply — 
but it is a mile and a half distant. Its two churches, too, 
seem to have got lost. I heard their bells tinkling to-day, 
but could see nothing of them. Ours seems to be the only 
big house, barring the doctors and the minister’s, in the 
village, and, as both the doctor and the minister are away, 
we depend for support — moral and physical — upon my 
delightful friend Mr. Dunwiddie. 

“You will think ‘delightful’ too strong a word, perhaps, 


138 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

but I really mean it. He is so many-sided. Yesterday I 
made his acquaintance as a special constable, and as a fam- 
ily grocer on holiday. To-day I met him as an elder in top 
hat and black coat. To-morrow I hope to see him in his 
working costume as postmaster cum family grocer. I may 
even yet see him as a courtier, for Mrs. Binnie has told me 
with great secrecy, but with evident pride, that he has 
designs upon Young Ellen. 

“I could write pages, my dear — but this must go now, or 
it won’t go till to-morrow they say. I must leave the rest 
till my next. Only one thing I must ask. Have you ever 
met a man called Ascher who was badly wounded on the 
Western Front? I can’t tell you more now. Good-bye, 
my dear, for the present.” 

She wrote more letters after that, but still Ascher did not 
come, and at dark she went round again to Mr. Car- 
ruthers’s end. 

She found the Investigator at tea. 

“I am finding it impossible to work owing to physical 
fatigue,” he said. “I am having another bed made up, 
and am going to sleep myself.” 

“Ah, that’s right,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I was just 
going to advise you to do that. And if Mr. Ascher 
awakes ” 

“He won’t,” said Mr. Carruthers. “Not even Young 
Ellen pulling the pillow from beneath his head awakened 
him.” 

“Young Ellen pulling the pillow from beneath his head?” 
exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, horrified. 

“I had forgotten to tell her that he was there,” said Mr. 
Carruthers, “and it was rather dark when she came to make 
my bed. I’ve explained it all now, however, and she quite 
understands everything.” 

To satisfy herself, nevertheless, that all was right with 
her other charge, Mrs. Abercrombie found Mr. Carruthers’s 
bedroom before she left, and looked in. 

A grey light from the window served to show her Ascher’s 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


*39 

face as he lay, flung in the abandonment of utter exhaus- 
tion, still dressed, upon the bed. A quilt had been drawn 
over him, but he had pushed it back, grasping it fiercely in 
one thin hand. 

She replaced it gently before she left. 

•••••••• 

Considering all things, it is not to be wondered at, That 
although Mrs. Abercrombie ordered breakfast as usual at 
eight o’clock on the Monday morning, and even made signs 
of assent when she was called at seven, she not only did not 
make her appearance at the time appointed, but did not 
enter her sitting-room till the afternoon. 

Ascher, however, appeared in the kitchen with orders 
from Mr. Carruthers, that breakfast for himself and his 
colleague was to be brought to the entrance-hall, and no 
further. 

“And indeed I’d no wish to go further,” Young Ellen 
reported afterwards to her aunt. “I had had sic a scare 
last nicht findin’ Mr. Ascher in Mr. Carruthers’s bed.” 

“Hoots, lassie, what was to scare ye aboot Mr. Ascher?” 
said her aunt. “I’m sure he seems a very nice gentle- 
man.” 

“I thocht he was a corp, an’ that Mr. Carruthers had 
been murdered,” explained Young Ellen. 

“Murdered!” Old Ellen had cried. “Ye have murder 
on yer brain, lassie!” 

“An’ nae wonder,” Young Ellen had said, “when ye hear 
naething but o’ folk thrawin’ ither folks’ necks, though they 
should ha’ to swing for it.” 

“Hoots!” Old Ellen had rejoined, “pit Dash Forgan oot 
o’ yer head. Wha cares what he says?” 

“It’s no’ Dash alane, it was Bob that was sayin’ it,” 
Young Ellen had replied. “He says he’s sure it’s Dunwid- 
die that’s keepin’ me from fixin’ up the mairriage day, or if 
it’s no Dunwiddie he says it’s Mr. Ascher, for he cam’ in 
when Mr. Ascher was helping me to cairry ower Mr. Car- 
ruthers’s breakfast.” 


i 4 o THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Ascher!” Mrs. Binnie had exclaimed. “Did ye no’ 
tell him ye’d jist that meenit seen Ascher for the first time 
in yer life?” 

“Ay did I,” Young Ellen had replied. 

“Aweel, Ellen,” her aunt had said then, “it’s my opeenion 
that, for the sake o’ a’ pair ties, ye should jist mairry 
Bob.” 

“But I’m no* mairryin’ for the sake o’ a’ pairties,” Ellen 
had retorted. “I’m mairryin’ to please mysel’.” 

“Aweel, mairry awa’ then, an’ be done wi’t,” Old Ellen 
had concluded, “for as sure as death this mairriage o’ yours 
is fair pittin’ me in the nerves.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie not only did not appear for breakfast, 
she did not appear for lunch either. She slept on and on, 
and it was nearing tea-time, when Mr. Dunwiddie himself 
came over from the post office with a telegram for her. 

“I thocht I would jist let her ken afore she opened it 
that it was nae bad news,” he explained to Young Ellen; 
“telegrams is fearsome things in these days.” 

“Very kind, I’m sure,” said Ellen snippily, for, because 
of her vigil the night before, she was rather bad-tempered 
that afternoon. “A’ the same, if it was me, I would rayther 
ha’ the first read o’ my ain telegram.” 

“Ye needna tell her then,” said Dunwiddie. “Ye ken 
weel enough it wasna for that I came. Am I never to ha’ 
a glimpse o’ you?” 

“Ye saw me last nicht,” said Ellen, relaxing slightly. 

“Much guid that did me,” said Dunwiddie. “Wi’ a’ 
they ither folk there. Besides that was lang syne. Would 
ye no’ think better o’ it, Ellen, yet?” 

“Better o’ what?” said Ellen. 

“Better o’ mairryin’ a dour- tempered, quarrelsome, im- 
pident ” began Dunwiddie. 

“For mercy’s sake tak’ care,” said Ellen, half shutting the 
door, “for, whatever Bob may be, he’s no ane to be maddled 
wi’; an' the next time,” she added, “that ye come to see 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


141 

me, dinna come in yer apron nor yet yer shirt sleeves, for I 
dinna like them.” 

After he had gone, however, Ellen stood watching him 
from the window. 

“I was gey hard on him,” she said, “he meant weel, puir 
auld crater, an’ efter a’,” she added, “it would ha’ been 
daft-like o’ him to dress up to come across the road wi’ a 
telegram.” 

This reminded her of the telegram. 

Even then, however, she wondered whether she should 
take it up. ’ 

“It’s nae bad news,” she reflected, “sae it canna be 
urgent.” 

Nevertheless, as she reminded herself, a telegram was a 
telegram, and Mrs. Abercrombie, for all her geniality, had 
conveyed the impression to her that, like Bob, she was not 
one to be meddled with. 

A few moments later, therefore, Mrs. Abercrombie, roused 
to her great relief from an uneasy dream, in which she had 
been vainly endeavouring, on pain of some fell but unknown 
penalty, to read a ghost story of James’s, written in the 
Knossos characters, was sitting up in bed, tearing open her 
telegram, while Ellen waited discreetly in the doorway to 
see if there was any answer. 

It was not a long telegram. Ellen could see that. But it 
took a long time to read, and it obliged Mrs. Abercrombie 
to adjust her eyeglasses twice over. At last, however, she 
seized a writing-pad, which lay beside her bed, and scrib- 
bled some words upon it. Then, taking money from her 
purse, she handed it and the paper over. 

“Will you take it now?” she said. “I should like it to 
go as soon as possible.” 

Then, as Ellen left the room again, she saw her once 
more take up the pink paper, and, glancing at the answer 
in her hand, she read — “Lieutenant Archibald Abercrombie, 
Black Watch, B.E.F., France. Heartiest congratulations. 
Writing. Abercrombie.” 


142 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

This reply only made her curious as to what the mes- 
sage had been. But she knew that to find out from Mr. 
Dunwiddie was quite hopeless, and this thought, irritating 
as it was, reminded her of her elderly lover’s importance. 
It counteracted the effect of the shirt-sleeves and apron, 
and clothed him in the dignity of a government official. 
When she entered the shop at the corner of the street, there- 
fore, she was prepared to be as pleasant as before she had 
been unpleasant. She had no chance of being either, how- 
ever. Mr. Dunwiddie, though she was certain he saw her* 
come up to the post office end of his counter, was so occu- 
pied in weighing out sugar rations, that he never so much 
as looked at her. Deft-handed and capable-looking, he 
stood beside his weighing machine, entrenched behind blue 
bags, and apparently complete absorption. It seemed to be 
nothing to him that she was at the other end of the counter, 
being attended to by an underling. 

“He’s mad at me, that’s what it is,” said Ellen to her- 
self, as she returned to her own place, crestfallen. “He 
couldna bear me sayin’ that aboot his apron. And nae 
wonder,” she admitted to herself; “I wouldna ha’ thocht 
much o’ him if he had. Aweel, that’s the end o’ Dunwiddie 
onyway. It’s a relief that that’s settled.” 

Nevertheless, as she set about making up pats of mar- 
garine for tea, she realised that freedom from uncertainty 
brings with it sometimes a certain dreariness. 

Mrs. Abercrombie, meanwhile, writing-pad on knee, had 
indited the following letter in the greatest possible excite- 
ment: — 

“My beloved Archie, — I have just received your wire, 
and I hope by this time you have received mine in reply. 
My dear, I can hardly believe it. You really engaged! 
And to Andy — Andy Kinross of all people! Well you 
know — though I have not seen her for years — not since we 
met in Paris in old Lady Kinross’s time — how I admire her. 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


143 

and her brilliant talent. But I should never have dreamed, 
that she was the kind of woman you would admire. 

“Why I don’t know, but I never should have dreamed 
it. As for her — of course no woman could resist you — so 
I am not surprised. But aren’t you very proud, dear? I 
know I am, to be going to have for a niece-in-law the girl 
that Debussy said was one of the few real geniuses he had 
come across. Is she still composing? Or has the war 
stopped that? The last I heard of her was, that she had 
begun an opera. I wonder if she managed to finish that. 
I wonder — oh, hundreds of things. But this must go to the 
post. Do write soon, and tell me as much as ever you can. 
News like this is fortunately uncensored. How splendid the 
war news is too! But at the moment I can think of nothing 
but your news. 

“God bless you, dear, and your Andy too, and bring the 
war soon to an end, and you and her safely home. 

“Ever, and more than ever, Your devoted old 

Aunt Em. 

“P.S . — Send me as soon as you can Andy’s present ad- 
dress. 

“P.S . — I see I have said nothing of the Dove-cote, but 
that must keep for another time. I am much too excited 
now to do it justice, or the people in it. By the way, have 
you ever met a Mr. Ascher, who was serving somewhere on 
the western front, and very badly wounded, and is now 
suffering from the results of that, and very bad shock as 
well? He plays wonderfully and is quite charming, and is 
already a great friend of mine. I cannot ask him if he has 
met you, as I have to avoid all talk of the war. But I am 
sure if you have met him, you will remember him. He is 
singularly interesting. “E. D’O. A.” 

When she had closed and addressed this, she rose and 
dressed, taking a long time, because of prolonged cogita- 
tions at short intervals. 


144 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Andy Kinross,” she said softly to herself, again and 
again, as she paused in a dazed manner to contemplate the 
engagement. The more she contemplated it, the more dazed 
she felt. 

She recalled Andy as she had last seen her, a slim, unde- 
veloped, dark-eyed girl of sixteen or seventeen, in her grand- 
mother’s salon, playing weird compositions of her own, all 
from memory or manuscript, for she had always refused, 
her grandmother had said, to attempt to publish anything. 

“And that not from modesty, my dear,” the old lady 
had added with a laugh. “She tells me she feels that some 
day she will be able to astonish the world, and she would 
rather wait for that than come before the footlights with 
little twaddly things. Her master says she is quite right 
too, and really — a suite of hers, that was done the other 
day at the Conservatoire by the orchestra, is bizarre, but 
truly lovely.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie, seated motionless now, comb in hand, 
before her dressing-table, remembered this saying, and her 
amazement merged into petrifaction. What had happened? 
How was it that this girl, so ambitious, so rarely gifted, 
had come to think of marrying dear Archie — the least musi- 
cal of all the nephews, and that was saying something, the 
simplest, the most matter of fact . . .? 

“It must be a case of opposites,” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, “and she must be desperately in love with him.” 

The thought reassured her, but she was haunted by the 
dark eyes, more like a pixie’s or a water-nymph’s than those 
of a mere schoolgirl. 

“It must have been her eyes that attracted him,” she said 
to herself, as she went on with her toilet, “for otherwise 
she was not in the least attractive — rather the reverse — 
she was an eerie creature. Dear Archie — I wonder — will 
she make him happy?” 

She wondered more and more as the evening closed in. 
She became obsessed with the thought of Archie and Andy. 
As darkness fell, it came on to rain heavily. A sense of 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 145 

impending disaster was upon her which she found it 
impossible to shake off. There seemed to be no escape 
from it anywhere. To read or work or write letters seemed 
impossible. She sent Ellen round to ask if Ascher would 
come and play to her, but she came back to say that the 
door of Mr. Carruthers’s end was locked, and, as a new rule 
had been made that there was to be no knocking after 
eight o’clock at night unless the door was open, she had had 
to come away. 

In these straits Mrs. Abercrombie decided upon drastic 
measures, and, seating herself at the piano, she opened the 
Schmitt Exercises at the first page, and began playing them 
very steadily, very loudly, and very slowly. 

She had only reached the beginning of the second line, 
when she was interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Come in,” she called, and Ascher entered, his smiling 
eyes meeting hers in a mirror opposite. 

“My incantation has been successful,” she laughed. “Sit 
down, enchanter.” 

A moment later he had taken her place on the piano 
stool, and was playing “Jardins sous la pluie.” 

The Schiedmayer, thank God, as she wrote afterwards to 
Reggie, was in tune and playable, and, after that, Ascher 
came and went. 

A week passed — uneventful, quiet. The cloud of appre- 
hension, which had oppressed Mrs. Abercrombie on the first 
night of the engagement, had been entirely dispelled next 
day by a letter from Andy Kinross herself, a delightful 
letter, full of everything that could be desired. Her future 
aunt-in-law had written an affectionate reply, in which, 
however, if the truth must be told, some of her first wonder 
and amazement had unconsciously appeared. She had 
asked many questions in it, and was surprised to have 
no reply, for Andy, it seemed, was in England. She had 
been doubtless much occupied, however. She was on leave 
from France, where she had been working in a hospital, 


i/fi THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

where Archie had been sent to recover from a wound, which 
he had never thought it worth while to mention. So it 
had come about — the engagement — but, as Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie said, there were a hundred and one things that she 
still wanted to know, and it was strange that there should 
be no answer — so strange, that she wrote again at the end 
of the week to see if Andy had received the letter. 

On the evening of that day Ascher did not come in, ex- 
cept for a few moments to say that Mr. Carruthers needed 
him. He was not very well, a touch of influenza or some- 
thing, and needed to be kept in bed, which meant, of 
course, never leaving him. 

“Well, I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “but I sup- 
pose it’s good for me, for now I shall not only get on with 
my knitting, but my reading. I brought piles of books, and 
I haven’t begun one yet. This Dove-cote is an extraor- 
dinary place. I have done nothing since I came to it but 
talk and listen. Good night — and take these eucalyptus 
lozenges with you. I have great faith in eucalyptus, and 
tell James I said he was to take them, and give his Higher 
Intelligence a chance.” 

“Good night,” said Ascher, laughing; “I’ll tell him.” 

And he went away down the stairs, actually humming a 
snatch of Rubinstein. 

“Poor dear, he’s happier,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, lis- 
tening. Then, feeling happier herself, she went across to a 
side table, where she kept her “piles of books,” and was 
absorbed in looking them over, and in deciding what she 
should read first, when sounds of footsteps and voices on 
the stair disturbed her. 

“Of course,” she said to herself, “more people coming 
to talk to me, just when I thought I was going to have 
peace at last. I don’t believe there is such a thing as peace 
in this Dove-cote.” 

Here some one knocked at the door. 

“Come in,” she responded, not too cordially. 

She was standing with her back to the door at the time, 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE 


147 

and did not turn, thinking that either Old or Young Ellen 
had entered. The silence which followed, however, startled 
her. It was so unusual. She looked round therefore. A 
second later she had whisked round altogether, and was 
standing staring open-mouthed. 

“Who is it?” she said faintly. 

A girl stood on the threshold — not Old Ellen, not Young 
Ellen — a girl with a half-smile on her face, and in her 
strange dark eyes. She closed the door softly behind her. 

“Don’t you know, Mrs. Abercrombie?” she said, coming 
slowly forward into the lamplight. 

“It can’t be Andy? ” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, still 
petrified. 

“Why not?” said the girl, laughing a little. 

“It is Andy!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie, hastening for- 
ward, and taking her impulsively by both hands. “But — 
pardon me, my dear — I didn’t know you again — you have 
become so — so beautiful l” 


CHAPTER VII 


WHICH BEGINS WITH AN INTERVIEW IN A SITTING-ROOM AND 

ENDS WITH ANOTHER IN THE COURTYARD OF A PALACE 

“Yes,” said Andy gravely. “And it’s a great pity.” 

“A pity?” said Mrs. Abercrombie amazed. The girl so 
evidently meant it. 

There was silence for a long moment, as they stood still 
looking at each other. Then Andy gently withdrew her 
hands. 

“Don’t let’s begin now,” she said. “I have come to talk 
everything over with you. It will take — oh — perhaps all 
night.” 

She laughed a little hysterically. 

The laugh enlightened Mrs. Abercrombie. It also made 
her heart sink like lead. As her custom was, however, she 
seemed all the more cheerful because of this. 

“I see,” she said briskly. “And I am delighted you have 
come, my dear.” 

“I’m afraid it’s inconvenient,” said Andy, “but I simply 
Gouldn’t help it. Your letter was so — so understand- 
ing ” 

Her lip quivered. 

“My dear, it’s perfectly convenient,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie hastily. “There is a delightful room for you, and 
I am charmed to see you. Don’t say another word now, 
but come and change and be comfortable. I hear them 
bringing your luggage upstairs. We’ll have dinner first 
and talk straight on afterwards.” 

With these words she bore the new-comer to the guest- 
chamber, a quaint little room overlooking the street, 

148 


AN INTERVIEW 


149 

papered with a pattern of green ivy leaves and hung with 
chintz to match. Here, saying “Au revoir, my dear,” she 
presently left her, and went to adjust matters with Mrs. 
Binnie. 

Arrived at last in her own room, however, the mask of 
cheerfulness fell from her face, and several times while she 
dressed, she shook her head lugubriously at her reflection 
in the mirror. A photograph of Archie stood on the mantel- 
piece, and when she was ready she stood for some time 
looking at it, before, with one last shake of the head more 
pessimistic than any that had preceded it, she returned to 
the sitting-room. 

She found Andy already there waiting for her, and till 
dinner, and during that meal, they talked volubly on indif- 
ferent subjects. Their joint efforts to keep on the surface 
of things established before long a sense of cameraderie 
between them, and increased their mutual admiration. 

“Pm glad I came,” said Andy to herself. 

“She’s no fool anyhow,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

When they reached the coffee stage, and drew their chairs 
up to the fire, the air was comfortably cleared of con- 
straint. 

“Now, my dear,” was all Mrs. Abercrombie said, as she 
settled a cushion behind her back, and placed her feet on 
the fender. 

Andy needed no more. 

“I did not answer your letter,” she said, “because it was 
so splendid — so — as I said before — so understanding, that I 
simply felt I had to come — there was no help for it, and let 
you judge of everything.” 

“Go on then,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Just go straight 
on.” 

“I’ll begin at the beginning then,” said Andy; “before the 
war, when I was in Paris working.” 

“At your music, yes, I know,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“You had begun the score of an opera, I heard.” 

“Oh, that,” said Andy, with a contemptuous shrug of 


150 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

her shoulders, “that was nothing — but I had just begun to 
get on. You know what I mean, Mrs. Abercrombie.” 

“Call me Aunt Em,” here interjected Mrs. Abercrombie. 

It was the first reference she had made to the engage- 
ment. 

Andy paused for a moment, looking at her in her grave 
way, and again Mrs. Abercrombie was struck with a kind 
of amazement at her strange new beauty. Her memory 
flew back to old Lady Kinross’s salon and the undeveloped 
sixteen-year-old that she had seen there five years before. 
The slim lines were still there, but all the awkwardness and 
angles were gone, leaving in their place an indescribable 
ease and gracefulness. The dark hair, formerly dragged 
back schoolgirl fashion from the low broad forehead, was 
now gathered in thick coils round the small head. The 
whole face seemed glorified, the once pale cheeks were 
flushed with colour, the somewhat high cheek-bones were 
less prominent, and the dark eyes glowed underneath their 
finely-marked eyebrows. The schoolgirl had been wearing 
rather a ridiculous dress, chosen by her ladyship, whose 
tastes were of the rococo order. The girl sitting opposite 
was robed in something loose and simple, and soft, and dull 
red, that was wholly satisfying. 

“Call me Aunt Em,” she said again after a moment. 

“Shall I?” said Andy. “Before I have told you my 
story, I mean?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Story or no story, I’d 
like it.” 

“So would I,” said Andy. 

“Go on then,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “You were in 
Paris working, and you were getting on. You had got 
beyond the phase of mere technique — was that it?” 

“Yes,” said the girl eagerly; “after I saw you that time, 
I worked desperately hard, preparing — you understand. I 
had all the rules of counterpoint at my finger-ends, — I 
slaved at instrumentation, I knew Berlioz by heart, and I 
was deep in comparing what I had learned, with what had 


AN INTERVIEW 


151 

been actually done by the great masters, — taking lessons 
straight from them, you understand, when the war cut 
everything across.” 

She paused, gazing before her into the fire. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “You gave up working 
then?” 

“I gave up my own work,” said Andy, “like everybody 
else. How could I sit apart with Bach and Beethoven and 
the rest, while the whole world was calling for help? I 
went and, after such training as there was time for, I 
worked in a Red Cross hospital near Paris.” 

She paused again, and sat still once more, as though 
enveloped in a sombre shadow of remembrance. 

“It was hard work,” said Mrs. Abercrombie after a 
moment. 

“It was horrible,” said Andy. “It was not the work I 
minded, but the terrible fewness of the workers — the incom- 
petence — the impossibility. Oh, if you had seen it — the 
rows of beds — the frightful wounds — I dream about it often 
at nights, and always the worst is the feeling of hopeless 
helplessness. We were so few, and so insufficiently trained, 
the poor men ” 

“Don’t think of it now,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, lay- 
ing a hand on her knee. “You broke down there — was 
that it?” 

“Yes, I never shall forgive myself for it,” said Andy. 
“I was off work for some time, and they would not allow 
me to go back. They sent me instead to — to ” 

“To the convalescent hospital, where you met Archie,” 
finished Mrs. Abercrombie. 

Andy nodded without speaking, and they sat silent for a 
long moment. 

“I was in a strange mood when I went there,” Andy 
went on at last. “It was as though in that sea of death 
and suffering into which I had been plunged, all my past 
life with its desires and its ambitions had dropped from 
me. It was almost as though I had passed through death 


152 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

myself. For the time being I think I must have been 

practically out of my mind. Otherwise ” she paused 

again. ‘‘Otherwise I cannot account for what happened — 
for what I did I mean — when Archie asked me to marry 
him. We had not seen much of each other when — when it 
happened. It seems to me now that I must have been 
asleep — or in a kind of trance.” . . . 

“And now you have awakened,” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie. 

“No,” said Andy, regarding her with her dark mournful 
eyes. “I am still not myself. The only difference is that 
now I know I am not, and I am afraid — desperately afraid, 
Aunt Em — that I may be going to waken.” 

“I see,” said Mrs. Abercrombie quietly again, though 
inwardly she was in a turmoil. “Well, my dear — you were 
right to come to me. You — you think now, you do not care 
enough for Archie?” 

“It’s not that,” said Andy eagerly. “I do care for him 
* — more than for anybody in the world, but only — oh, do 
understand me, dear Aunt Em — I care for him only with 
the human part of me — and the other — what my master 
used to call the demon part of me, is so strong — I am afraid 
of it — it is so much stronger.” 

“You mean the music, of course,” said Aunt Em, trying 
to speak, as she said afterwards, in a commonsense way, 
though her wits were reeling. “But surely, my dear Andy, 
if Archie has the human part of you — he will be satisfied. 
No man surely would be jealous of Bach or Beethoven?” 

“Least of all poor Archie,” said Andy, laughing ruefully. 
“Because he has no idea, and never will have, of their 
power over me. Oh, do not misunderstand me — he is the 
dearest boy in the world. But shall I be able to make him 
happy — Aunt Em, tell me — shall I, shall I?” 

It was the strangest thing, as Mrs. Abercrombie said 
afterwards, to see this lovely creature ask this question, 
leaning towards her in her dull red gown, her white arms 
outstretched in passionate entreaty. A memory of a play 


AN INTERVIEW a 53 

of Yeats came into her head — in which a newly wedded 
bride is lured away by fairy music from her home and 
husband to unknown regions. It was as though this half- 
sprite, half-bride, were appealing to her, while yet there 
was time, to prevent a tragedy. 

“I cannot tell, ,> she said suddenly, in spite of herself. 

Then cursing herself for an old fool — 

“No, no, I am talking nonsense,” she said. “The hap- 
piest marriages are often just such as yours will be. I speak 
from experience. My husband was an artist.” 

“Ah, but so were you,” Andy burst out. “Oh, don’t 
think I love Archie the less for it— but— but— he is dif- 
ferent.” 

This was so true that there was no denying it. The 
speech roused Mrs. Abercrombie, however, reflecting as it 
did upon her beloved. 

“Whatever he may be as an artist,” she retorted sharply, 
“I am convinced that Archie is a perfect lover. He would 
do anything to make you happy.” 

“Ah, that’s just it,” exclaimed Andy. “It would be bet- 
ter if he were more selfish.” 

“More selfish?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie in her 
turn. 

“Yes,” said Andy, “my being here just now is simply 
because of his unselfishness. He insisted upon my giving 
up my work in France and going on with my own work 
again. He said it gave him more heart to fight knowing 
that I was doing what I wanted to do. But it is that which 
has aroused me — made me aware at least of — of everything. 
Before that, I had forgotten — now I am remembering. . . . 
When your letter reached me I was at my aunt’s house in 
the New Forest wrestling with the first fugue I had tackled 
for nearly four years. I had not remembered how splendid 
it was to do it — I was absorbed — possessed — I had gone 
mad for the moment — I had been transported to another 
world. And there your letter of — shall I say — congratula- 
tion? — but, dear Aunt Em, it was not altogether that 


154 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

(though I could see you meant it for that), there your 
letter found me. It had the strangest effect — it brought 
me back to my human self — but I found I was no longer 
content to be human. The demon — well — I told you I was 
possessed. ... At the same time, some things you said in 
your letter brought back to me the time when I had met 
you before, and when you had understood everything so 
absolutely, and so — knowing how you loved Archie — I 
came,” Andy concluded. 

“My dear, I thank God you did,” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie. “Now let’s thrash it out together.” 

She sat silent again after that for what seemed a long 
time, while Andy, silent too, sat watching her. Twice she 
turned and found her with her dark eyes fixed upon her. 
There was no anxiety in them now, however. 

“She is depending upon me,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to 
herself, and the thought, as she would have said, rattled 
her. 

“But Archie is depending upon me too,” she reminded 
herself, and this thought in its turn steadied her. 

“I can’t see, Andy,” she said at last, “why — demon and 
all — you should not make Archie happy. He may not un- 
derstand everything, but he does understand evidently that 
the demon must have an innings sometimes; and he is 
content to share you with him.” 

“But he hasn’t really met the demon yet, you must re- 
member,” said Andy, smiling a little. 

Talking it over was reassuring. Put into words her vague 
fears seemed much less terrible. 

“He has never seen me when possessed — caring for noth- 
ing in the world but the one thing,” she added. 

“My dear, I’d chance it nevertheless,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “He is a soldier, remember, and will often be 
away from you. The demon may prove to be Archie’s best 
friend yet. The more I look at you the more desirable I 
find the demon.” 


AN INTERVIEW 


i55 

Andy laughed for the first time. She had a merry, infec- 
tious laugh. 

“You see now, don’t you,” she said, “what I meant when 
I said it was a pity? If I had had the plainest nose and 
eyes and mouth that ever were made, I would have been 
quite happy.” 

“I don’t believe you,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “And at 
all events I can speak for Archie. He always had a weak- 
ness for good looks.” 

“Yes, he is devoted to you,” said Andy. 

They laughed together, and Mrs. Abercrombie poked up 
the fire. 

“Good heavens! it’s half-past eleven!” she exclaimed, 
glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You will find 
biscuits and drinks in the cupboard over there. Do get 
them, there’s a dear, and let us resuscitate ourselves.” 

Andy rose and crossed the room. 

“What — Schiedmayer?” she said, as she examined the 
piano in passing. “Have you been playing?” 

“No, my dear, but a greater than I — as you shall hear,” 
said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

Then a sudden thought struck her. 

“Does your demon ever want assistance?” she said, “or 
would he disdain the help of a first-rate human musician?” 

“Is there such an one here?” said Andy lightly, as she 
brought forward the drinks and biscuits. 

“About composition I don’t know,” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, “but he plays like — like another demon.” 

“Really?” said Andy, surprised. 

“You shall judge for yourself to-morrow,” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie, as she accepted a glass of soda-water. “And, 
whether you like his playing or not, I hope you will take an 
interest in him.” 

“I will if he is interesting,” laughed Andy. 

She felt all of a sudden strangely gay and light-hearted. 
The doubts and fears and troubles that had overwhelmed 


156 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

her had vanished like wraiths in Mrs. Abercrombie’s genial 
presence. 

“Well he is interesting,” said her hostess; and when 
Andy had sat down again she poked up the fire once more, 
and told her everything she knew about Ascher. 

She told it well, too. 

Andy, leaning sideways against the mantelpiece with the 
glow of the fire upon her, saw picture after picture of him 
rise vividly before her. She saw him as a radiant boy lis- 
tening to Ysaye. She saw him in his sailor’s clothes, pale 
and haggard, upon Mrs. Abercrombie’s doorstep. She saw 
him in her dimly lighted hall sitting talking about the con- 
cert — in the drawing-room in his paroxysm of grief — at the 
piano — on the journey — 

And when at last in the small hours she went to bed 
and to sleep, she dreamed about him. 

As for Mrs. Abercrombie, she did not dream or even sleep 
till morning. 

After a time, giving up the attempt to compose herself 
to slumber, she sat up to meditate. 

She spoke too, from time to time, apparently to the bed- 
post. 

“Poor Archie,” she said more than once. “But it’s bet- 
ter now than afterwards. She has begun to realise it her- 
self ... all that she doesn’t realise is, that she doesn’t, and 
never did, care two straws for him.” 

Here there was a long pause. 

“Or does she?” she went on at last. “If she doesn’t, 
why should she have been so distressed — or is it only loy- 
alty and pity that she mistakes for love, having never expe- 
rienced it? Yet — she was genuinely distressed — and she 
cares for him more than anyone in the world she says. And 
who else would she find who would put up with her demon 
better than my easy-going, chivalrous Archie?” 

Another long pause here intervened. 

“Damn her good looks!” Mrs. Abercrombie went on 
again. “If it had not been for them this would never have 


AN INTERVIEW 


157 

happened. As she says, it is a great pity she has a face like 
a wood-nymph’s. If she had had thin hair and specs, and 
no figure, and flat features, she would have been far hap- 
pier, and so would Archie.” 

Another long pause. 

“But Archie is happy,” she continued, “and, after all, 
why should he not be, if she sticks to him — though if she 
didn’t, I shouldn’t wonder if he soon got over it. These 
war-engagements — well they’re not married yet anyhow. A 
few weeks of uninterrupted demon will settle things one 
way or the other.” 

Here a new thought suddenly occurred, which necessi- 
tated very profound and prolonged cogitation. When they 
were resumed, the arguments had become fragmentary. 

“If only one knew who he was,” she muttered. “James 
vouches for him, and James — though he is half-mad — is a 
gentleman.” . . . 

“A mystery doesn’t necessarily imply anything discredit- 
able. Andy, if it comes to that, is mysterious herself. They 
say Lady Kinross was her grandmother, but now, more 
than ever, I have my doubts. . . . For anyone more un- 
like”. . . 

“It can’t do any harm anyhow,” she added, after another 
pause. “Indeed it may be providential.” 

And this conclusion, unsatisfactory as it may seem to the 
casual reader, soothed her wonderfully. 

• ••••••• 

“Auntie,” said Young Ellen to her companion in the box- 
bed in the room through the wall just about that moment. 
“There’s surely something wrang wi’ Mrs. Abercrombie. 
She’s aye speakin’ an’ better speakin’. I canna get sleepit 
for her.” 

“Ye’d better see if she’s wantin’ onything then,” said 
Mrs. Binnie drowsily, as she turned over. 

“She’s no’ wantin’ onything, or she would ha’ rung her 
bell,” said Ellen. 


158 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“I ken,” said Old Ellen, “but if ye gang in it’ll quiet 
her.” 

“Ye’re richt,” said Young Ellen; and she slipped forth- 
with from the bed and, by the light of a taper, found her 
way to Mrs. Abercrombie’s room. 

“Come in,” said that lady in answer to her knock, and 
entering, Ellen found her seated bolt upright among her 
pillows. 

Ten minutes earlier, in the throes of her self-communing, 
Mrs. Abercrombie would have been furious at the entrance 
of Young Ellen. Now, however, having reached what Mr. 
Carruthers had called a double bar in her meditations, and 
being just as far from sleep as ever, she welcomed her. 

The contrast also between Young Ellen’s round polished 
face and tight plaits, and the face she had expected to see 
when she called “Come in,” vastly tickled her. 

“Well, what is it, Ellen?” she said gravely, neverthe- 
less. 

“I just wanted to see, M’m,” said Ellen, “if ye wantit 
onything. I heard ye speakin’, an’ I thocht perhaps ” 

“Ah, I disturbed you,” said Mrs. Abercrombie remorse- 
fully. 

“Oh no, M’m,” said Ellen dejectedly, “I wasna sleepm* 
onyway. I hardly ever sleep now, M’m.” 

“Hardly ever sleep?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“What is the meaning of that? A young woman like you 
should not be sleepless. Sit down on that chair there, and 
tell me why you are not sleeping.” 

“Oh, thank you, M’m,” said Young Ellen, setting down 
her candle and obeying. “I’ll be glad to, for I’m jist de- 
mentit wi’ thinkin’ to myseP, an’ my Auntie’ll no’ listen to 
me any longer. It’s aboot my mairriage, M’m.” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “You mean about your 
marriage to Mr. Dunwiddie? Well, surely there should not 
be much to worry over in that! I consider Mr. Dunwiddie 
quite the catch of the neighbourhood.” 


AN INTERVIEW 159 

“So he is, M’m, so he is,” said Ellen, distressed. “I’ve 
been brocht to see that.” 

“Well, what’s the matter?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“The matter is,” said Ellen — “and it’s all my fault, M’m 
- — that I ha’ given him offence and lost my chance o’ him.” 

Here Ellen’s smooth face screwed up suddenly into 
wrinkles, and tears began to course down both sides of her 
nose. 

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I’m sure he is too 
sensible a man and too fond of you to be put off by any 
silly little mistake. Tell me how you offended him.” 

With folded arms she then listened judicially, while Ellen 
told the whole story of the bringing of the telegram, of her 
remark about the apron, and of Mr. Dunwiddie’s changed 
demeanour. 

“So ye see, M’m,” she concluded, wiping her eyes, “he 
has cast me off for ever, and that’s what’s botherin’ me.” 

“Then don’t let it bother you for another instant,” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie. “Such things happen constantly. I’ll 
put it all right for you.” 

“Oh, will you, M’m, will you?” cried Ellen. 

“Yes; but let this be a lesson to you,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. 

“It will — it will,” said Ellen. “I’ll never say apron to 
him again, M’m.” 

“You had better not,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “At 
least until you are Mrs. Dunwiddie. Now go to bed again 
and sleep — or you’ll look an absolute fright to-morrow when 
Mr. Dunwiddie looks in to make it up with you.” 

Ellen accordingly went to bed. 

“Was she wantin’ ony thing?” said Mrs. Binnie, as, cold, 
but comforted, her niece scrambled in beside her. 

“No,” said Ellen. 

“She took long enough to tell ye it then,” said her aunt. 

But to this Ellen made no answer. 

She preferred that her aunt should not know the subject 
of her conversation with Mrs. Abercrombie. Dunwiddie’s 


160 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

defection was as yet unknown to her, and now it might not 
be necessary for her ever to know of it. Pride had pre- 
vented her telling of it before. Now confidence in Mrs. 
Abercrombie kept her silent. 

Ellen slept. 

Others, however, were still awake that night. 

In Mr. Carruthers’s end great things were a-doing. 

Ascher, leaving his invalid safely tucked up in bed, had 
retired to the writing-room and had just established himself 
comfortably in the one chair with a book, when he was 
excitedly recalled to the bedroom. He found Mr. Car- 
ruthers sitting up. 

“Ascher,” he exclaimed as soon as he entered, “an ex-* 
traordinary thing has happened to me. I have had the most 
wonderful Memory that I have ever had.” 

“A Memory, sir?” said Ascher bewildered. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I mean the — the — what I 
call the Soul-Memory — that lies behind and outside our 
memory of this present life and extends back through ages 
of other lives. Just now I am certain I tapped it, Ascher.” 

“Do you really think so?” exclaimed Ascher. “What 
makes you think so?” 

“The detail of it,” said Mr. Carruthers, running both 
hands through his hair, and staring as though he saw his 
vision still before him. “It was extraordinarily vivid, of 
course, but I don’t lay much stress on that — for I have 
been saturating my mind with all I can find about Knossos; 
and, as one reads, one unconsciously pictures things some- 
times more vivid than they are in reality. But this, that I 
have seen now, was no more like what I have read than 
the red earth and the palms and the temples of India are 
like the map of India. There is so much that is indescrib- 
able, that is left out of every description, and it was this 
undescribed detail that I saw — those things left out that I 
became aware of.” 

He paused again. 


AN INTERVIEW ;i6i 

“Tell me what you can, 1 ” said Ascher. “Was it Knossos 
you saw?” 

“I think so,” said Mr. Carruthers. “Yes, I am almost 
sure it was.” 

“Then would you like me to take notes?” said Ascher. 

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Carruthers, “and quickly before it 
fades again. Sit down there,” he went on, pointing to the 
bottom of the bed when Ascher returned with a writing-pad 
and a pencil, “and begin at once. ... I was lying still 
just as you left me — on my right side, with my hand under 

my check — so ” he suited the action to the word and 

then resumed his sitting posture. “I was lying like that, 
but not in the least asleep, when suddenly I found myself 
in a great walled court-yard filled with a heavy scent of 
flowers. It was very hot. That was the first thing I 
noticed; and this is the first, Ascher, of what I have 
called the undescribed details, which convince me that what 
I experienced was not mere imagination. It was a heat such 
as I have never known in this life. I have never been be- 
yond Europe, you remember, and not even so far as the 
south of Europe. I have read of such heat, of course, but 
reading of it is, I know now, very different from feeling it. 
The air around me seemed to burn. The great flag-stones 
underfoot, the masonry all round radiated heat like the 
walls of a furnace. I seemed to myself to be melting away 
in the midst of it, and, strangest of all, with regard to this 
point of heat, it seemed to have burned away everything 
breathable in the atmosphere. This I could never have 
imagined. I pant now when I think of it. My hair was wet 
and limp like seaweed, I was dripping with perspiration. 
My eyes — my whole head, ached with the glare of every- 
thing. My ears, too, seemed submerged as though I were 
under deep water. I could see enough, however, to recog- 
nise my whereabouts. Right opposite me, was the double 
axe on the great gate that I have seen so often. The sun 
was shining full on it. There was no mistake about it, and 
besides, on the wall underneath it, was the inscription in 


162 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

the Mincan character. ... You probably think, Ascher,” 
Mr. Carruthers went on, “that this is all imagination — but 
what I have now to tell you will convince you that it was 
real — the memory of something real. I have said I felt as 
though my ears were submerged, but I found presently that 
this was because of a great noise of talking. My dear 
Ascher, I was hearing the Minoan language — the spoken 
language of the mysterious inscriptions. ... You have no 
idea what a shock this gave me. It was as though, toiling 
doggedly up a dull ascent, I had reached a point all of a 
sudden whence I could see the stupendous summit. The 
strangest and most tantalising part of this, however, was the 
familiarity of what I heard amid all its utter unfamiliarity. 
The effect was as though something were interposed between 
it and my present understanding of it. I gather that it had 
been well-known to my Soul-Memory, and that that which 
obscured its meaning was simply my present mental appara- 
tus. But now here comes the most maddening thing of all. 
As I was sitting — it seems to me now at least that I was 
sitting — on the scorching pavement, a man came forward 
out of the crowd who were standing about the gateway. 
And now, Ascher, here is another detail. If I had been 
merely imagining him, surely I would have seen this man as 
a Minoan, or at least in some sort of dress that in my read- 
ing had become familiar to me. I would have imagined him 
with the tight waist and gold ornaments characteristic of 
the place in which I was meeting him. But this man and 
all the other men and women who came afterwards were 
totally unlike any persons or pictures that I have ever seen. 
I am certain of this, Ascher, though as you know I never 
could describe clothes. The clothes they were all wearing 
were certainly not Minoan, at least they were not of any of' 
the periods known to us at present. Another thing — the 
man was no dream-figure, indefinite, unreal, breathless, 
though in one sense he was breathless because he was pant- 
ing with heat and excitement and gesticulating wildly and 
pointing at me, and the strange thing was that, though what 


AN INTERVIEW 


163 

he said was incomprehensible to my mind — something — my 
Soul-Memory, I suppose, suddenly understood and realised 
that, for some injury I had done him, he meant to do for 
me. He was a workman of some kind for his hands were 
hard and calloused, and — another detail, Ascher — splashed 
with a curious purple colour. There was a deep tear or cut, 
too, in one of his purpled fingers, and even at that awful 
moment the thought crossed my mind of blood-poisoning. 
But before he had well reached me the whole crowd came 
surging in behind him, and I realised that there was nothing 
for it but to speak up in my own defence. Then — I got up 
with my back to that wall — and — you’ll never believe it, 
Ascher — I did speak, in the language, too, that they all were 
speaking, though I did not understand one word I was say- 
ing. But they understood me. I could see by their faces 
they did. They even stopped for a moment in full career to 
listen to me. Then an old wretch, who stood grinding his 
teeth in the middle of the front row, shouted something at 
me. I shouted back, some one answered again, I yelled a 
reply, and then they all rushed in upon me.” 

“And then?” said Ascher. “You don’t mean to say it 
stopped there?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I suppose they killed me. 
But whether they did or not is, of course, neither here nor 
there. The point is they understood me — they answered me 
— I answered them. Was there ever anything so madden- 
ing?” 

“Encouraging you mean?” said Ascher. “The Soul- 
Memory is there all right you see. It is merely the con- 
nection that is awanting between it and your present — er 
— mental mechanism.” 

“Merely!” exclaimed Mr. Carruthers, bitterly. 

“Can’t you think of even the sound of one of the words 
you spoke?” Ascher went on. “It might be like some other 
word — in Greek, for instance, that would help us.” 

“You will drive me distracted, Ascher,” cried Mr. Car- 
ruthers. “Of course that is just what I want to remember 


164 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

— but all I remember of the cursed thing is that it had a 
strange sort of lilt in it and long-drawn sliding vowel sounds, 
and of what use is that to anybody?” 

Here the Investigator seized his tousled head wildly be- 
tween his hands and rocked himself to and fro on the bed. 

“If I could just remember one syllable,” he groaned. 

“But you can’t, sir,” said Ascher, coolly. “You’ll never 
do it that way, at least — by trying to remember I mean— 
your present brain can’t do it. Your only chance — I am 
only reminding you, sir, of what you have told me yourself 
— is to slack off just as you were doing just now and give 
your Soul-Memory another opportunity.” 

“You’re right, Ascher — of course you’re right,” said Mr. 
Carruthers, calming himself by a great effort. 

“Lie down in the same position you were in before, sir,” 
said Ascher, “and I will leave you, but I shall not go to bed, 
I shall be in the next room reading. Call me if — if you 
want anything.” 

“I will,” said Mr. Carruthers, at once disposing himself 
once more in a horizontal position. “And meanwhile I 
shall be obliged if you will write out those notes for me. 
Not that they are of any use, now that I come to think of 
it, except that they may induce the — the frame of mind 
necessary. And, as you say, Ascher, the whole episode was 
encouraging. These people understood me, and they were 
Pre-Minoans I am certain.” 

“Pre-Minoans!” exclaimed Ascher. 

“I should not be surprised,” said Mr. Carruthers, sitting 
up again, “if they belonged to some period beyond the 
range of modern discovery, and if what I experienced took 
place in the very oldest palace of Knossos, of which nothing 
is now left but the dust in which lie the foundations of the 
others.” 

“Well, sir, I will leave you,” said Ascher firmly, for his 
patient’s excitement had begun visibly to rise again. 

“And do the notes, mind,” ordered Mr. Carruthers, as, 


AN INTERVIEW 165 

turning down the lamp on the dressing-table, Ascher left 
him to his visions. . . . 

For half an hour or so Ascher busied himself over the 
notes. Then, leaving them laid neatly on the writing-table, 
he drew the one chair up to the fire again. 

His solitary thoughts there, for the first time, were not 
all unhappiness. The shadow of remote ages rested benef- 
icently upon him, dulling for the time being even his dread- 
ful memories. Looking down into the abyss of time the 
ruin of empires seemed a small thing, and he himself im- 
mune from responsibility by reason of his insignificance. 

His thoughts passed then to the quest after the meaning 
of the Ancient Script, and he wondered idly whether it were 
insanity or transcendent sanity. At all events he concluded 
it meant much to his old friend, and to help him to pre- 
serve his reason during the strange task he had set himself 
would be doing him, and perhaps the world, a service. The 
future seemed not to exist for him that night. Like the im- 
mediate past it was blotted out for the time being. 

“I must have reached some pause between the acts,” he 
said to himself, and in this thought, too, there was a certain 
restfulness. 

It brought him back, however, to the point whence he 
had started, to his notes on the writing-table, and the quiet 
room. 

He realised that no summons had come from the bed- 
room, though, by the clock on the mantelpiece, he saw that 
nearly an hour had passed. As he sat still looking at the 
clock, however, he became aware of a slight but steadily 
recurring noise, “a long-drawn sliding vowel sound,” which 
brought him to his feet in an instant. Smiling, he Went 
across the room, along the passage, and into the bedroom, 
where the light from the lamp on the dressing-table fell full 
upon the Investigator lying oblivious of all things, modern 
as well as ancient. 


CHAPTER VIII 


IN WHICH AMONGST OTHER THINGS SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN 
OF WHAT HAPPENED ON THE FIRST DAY ON THE KNEES 
OF THE GODS 

Few things are more conducive to early rising than a whole 
night of unbroken sleeplessness. Mrs. Abercrombie, after 
she had had her morning tea, did not tarry in bed for a 
single moment. Her guest found her seated by her side, 
alert and watching, when she awoke about an hour later. 

“Well, my dear,” were the first words that greeted her, 
“how do you feel about getting to work right away this 
morning?” 

“To work?” Andy exclaimed, sitting up. “But am I 
really to work here, Aunt Em?” 

“Why not?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Did you think I 
was joking last night, or do you not think you could work 
here?” 

“Oh, couldn’t I?” exclaimed Andy, looking round ecstati- 
cally. “But — shouldn’t I — wouldn’t it be a trouble to 
you?” 

“Entirely the reverse, my dear,” returned Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “My poor Archie used to say that I was bom to 
be companion to a worker.” 

“And so you were,” said Andy. “You make one feel all 
kinds of possibilities.” 

“Come along then,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Or no — 
wait — they shall bring your breakfast to you here, and that 
will allow of my getting your work-table ready. Let me 
see. You want music-paper. There is some among the 
repertoire left by the uncle, who is a piano-tuner. He 

1 66 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 167 

seems to have his ambitions too, poor man. There’s music- 
paper enough to write a dozen fugues on. Then for your 
masters.” 

She ticked them off upon her fingers. 

“For Bach I have the Well-tempered, of course, and B 
Minor Mass and the Passion Music. 

“For Beethoven, the symphonies in piano score and 
Fidelio. 

“For Schumann, the concerto and the quintette and all 
the songs. 

“For Schubert, the C Major and the Unfinished and all 
the songs. 

“Will that do for a start?” 

“Gloriously!” exclaimed Andy. 

“Au revoir then,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Your break- 
fast will be here immediately, and when you come into the 
sitting-room, you will find the coast clear (for I am to be 
out till lunch-time) and only the gods awaiting you.” 

She was as good as her word, for Andy, when she entered 
the sitting-room, found it empty, and the round table cov- 
ered with an ink-bespattered green cloth, which belonged, 
she supposed, to the piano-tuner, and was wont to be used 
by him in his inspired moments. Upon this were ranged in 
readiness a large, very full ink-bottle, at least half a dozen 
pens, and about the same number of pencils, a pen-knife, a 
huge chunk of india-rubber, an expanse of clean pink blot- 
ting-paper, the music-paper, and all the masters. 

It was an inspiring spectacle, and, at the sight of it, the 
demon in Andy, who had been waxing more and more 
rampant all the time she was dressing, fairly swept her into 
the low chair, which stood in position in front of the pink 
blotting-paper. Before finally letting go, however, she wrote 
a letter to Archie. 

“Dear boy,” she wrote, “as you will see by the heading 
I am with Aunt v Em. She is, as she always was, a dear, 
and we are already as though it were only five days instead 
of five years since we met in Paris. She has asked me to 


168 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

stay on indefinitely here and work, and, as you won’t let 
me come back to France, or do war- work like other people, 
I have accepted in the meantime. I simply couldn’t help 
it. It’s so delightful here. I don’t mean the scenery. I 
haven’t been out to-day yet, and it was dark when I arrived 
in the village last night. It’s the house I mean, the at- 
mosphere, Aunt Em, the altogether.” 

Here followed a description of her own room and of the 
sitting-room as she had just found it, with a list of the 
preparations. 

“If I can’t make way now I shall be an absolute fool,” 
she concluded. 

She sent off this letter by Young Ellen to the post, and 
then she sat down again in the low chair. 

The “ Well-tempered” was on the top of the pile, and, 
opening the second volume at random, she found a fugue 
she did not know well. 

“Here goes,” she said, as she copied down the subject. 

Then, closing the Bach again, she set herself to work out 
the fugue. 

In a quarter of an hour she was fathoms deep in it. She 
heard nothing earthly any more, she saw nothing earthly. 
Outside the windows, from time to time, there was a whis- 
pering of withered leaves, and a soft deep sighing beyond 
them, as the wind passed over the woods. A grim portrait 
of Beethoven, which hung over the mantelpiece, frowned 
down upon her unheeded. Another protege of Mrs. Aber- 
crombie’s — a robin — came in at one of the windows, and 
hopped quite near without disturbing her. Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie herself, opening the door very softly at a quarter to one, 
was totally unnoticed, and withdrew again hastily as Young 
Ellen appeared, on her way upstairs to lay the table for 
luncheon. 

“I am rather tired,” she said to Young Ellen, “and I 
want to talk to you. I am going to have my lunch in bed. 
Take Miss Kinross’s in to her, and then bring me mine.” 

“Very good, M’m,” said Ellen with alacrity, for from her 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 169 

scullery window that morning she had seen Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie step in to Mr. Dunwiddie’s. Her high hopes of the re- 
sult of the mission, however, were dashed to the ground, 
when Mrs. Abercrombie, waiting till she had fetched her a 
hot bottle, and her luncheon, and her knitting, and some 
books, and that morning’s papers, said in a cold-hearted 
voice — 

“I am sorry to tell you, Ellen, that Mr. Dunwiddie thinks 
that things between you had better remain as they are. And 
I must tell you, too, that, since I saw him, I sympathise 
with him, and am very much annoyed with you, Ellen, for 
allowing me to go at all to him upon such an errand, while 
concealing from me the important fact that you were en- 
gaged to another man.” 

“It’s a lie he tells, M’m!” exclaimed Young Ellen, her 
round cheeks scarlet, her round eyes almost starting out of 
her head. “I never said I would mairry Bob Lindsay!” 

“Perhaps not, but you conveyed the impression that you 
intended to do so,” said Mrs. Abercrombie relentlessly. 
“And Bob told Mr. Dunwiddie in public last night that if 
he dared to interfere with his young woman again he would 
put him through his own bacon-slicer. Mr. Dunwiddie 
naturally feels his position in the affair to be undignified, 
and desires to take no further steps in the matter.” 

“The coward!” cried Ellen, subsiding into indignant 
tears. “He’s jist feared o’ Bob Lindsay, that’s what he is. 
He kens weel enough I hadna made up my mind — for I said 
that, whenever I had made it up, he would be the first to 
ken o’ it!” 

“In that case, Ellen,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, softening 
a little, “I think it will be for your aunt to take the matter 
in hand. If you will ask her to come up I ” 

“Eh, mercy no, M’m!” cried Ellen. “Dinna speak to her 
aboot it, for God’s sake! I’d rayther mairry Bob. ’Deed 
I’d rayther mairry Bob noo onyway, for a man that pits 
hissel’ afore his sweetheart an’ winna raise a finger to keep 
her is no’ worth a docken.” 


170 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“I agree with you, Ellen,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, as the 
forsaken damsel made tempestuously for the door. “But I 
would remind you that it is not necessary for you to marry 
Bob simply to save Mr. Dunwiddie from annoyance.” 

“If I thocht Dunwiddie would think that, M’m!” said 
Ellen, stopping short in the middle of the floor, and clench- 
ing both her hands, “I would die an auld maid, M’m.” 

“A course which I would strongly advise,” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie. “At all events,” she added, “do nothing 
without considering.” 

“Considering!” exclaimed poor Ellen. “It’s considerin’ 
that’s played the mischief wi’ me. A’ the same thankye 
kindly, M’m,” she added. Then, wiping her eyes, she de- 
parted. 

“I hope Mrs. Abercrombie is not ill?” said Andy anx- 
iously, when the luncheon arrangements were explained to 
her. 

“Oh no, Miss,” said Ellen, “and she told me to tell ye that 
she would see ye at tea-time when she hoped ye would have 
got finished.” 

“Finished!” exclaimed Andy to herself. But the thought 
spurred her to fresh efforts. Nevertheless she was still hard 
at it when, about a quarter to four, Mrs. Abercrombie 
looked in again. 

“Bring up tea at five to-day instead of four,” said that 
lady when a few minutes later Ellen appeared in answer to 
her bell. 

At four-thirty Andy had finished her fugue. It was ready 
to be compared with the original. 

“But I won’t begin that till after tea,” she resolved, and, 
sitting down to the piano, she began to play over what she 
had written. She played slowly and with many pauses, try- 
ing the bolder combinations of notes again and again, now 
loudly, now softly, and this halting rendering gave to the 
whole a disconnected desultory effect — especially as heard 
on the other side of the wall in Mr. Carruthers’s writing- 
room. 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 171 

Mr. Carruthers was not there himself. His Knossos ad- 
venture had resulted in a rise of temperature. 

‘‘Though God knows it’s nothing now to what it must 
have been when I lived there!” he remarked. 

It was bad enough, however. He had slept most of the 
day, and he had just awakened very much better and quite 
cool, when the sound of Andy’s playing penetrated to his 
seclusion. 

“There’s Mrs. Abercrombie incanting you again, Ascher,” 
he remarked to his attendant, who all day had never left 
him. “Go over now and play to us. It will do me good and 
you too.” 

“Would you like it, sir?” said Ascher, but he said it with- 
out enthusiasm, for never had he felt less like playing. The 
spell of the ancient palaces was still upon him. His 
spirit had been caught up out of the turmoil of grief and 
horror, which had all but overwhelmed him, on to the plane 
of the immensities, and had dwelt all day upon a peak of 
contemplation, whence he had been able to view all things 
from an entirely new angle. If it were true, he reflected, 
and it seemed to him convincingly true that day, that ex- 
istence followed upon existence through cycle after cycle, 
then the worst disgrace and ruin that could befall a nation 
or an individual were but the inevitable payments of obliga- 
tions incurred in former existences. They were incidental 
and not irretrievable. On the other hand those who were 
the cause of suffering and agony, though they might escape 
present punishment, could not escape destiny. Why then 
should he spend himself raging and striving as though the 
tremendous machinery of the universe were in need of his 
assistance? The avenging cycles would roll on without his 
puny help, meting out justice, controlling the rise and fall 
of nations. His sense of irresponsibility grew and grew till 
he saw himself no longer as the degraded German, as one of 
a doomed and dishonoured nation, but as an individual, a 
free spirit, a man with but a remnant of his present life left, 
but still time, perhaps, to help to add a stone to the cairn 


172 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

of human knowledge. He asked no more, he told himself, 
than to live to the end, with the Investigator, this life, bare 
of everything to all appearance, but set about with en- 
thralling possibilities. 

He had just reached this point in his reflections when Mr. 
Carruthers called for music, and, all things considered, it 
was perhaps no wonder that he did not respond with his 
usual alacrity. It was as though from the peace of his ab- 
straction he were being dragged down suddenly and pain- 
fully to lower planes. 

“Of course if you want it, sir ” he said, unwillingly. 

But Mr. Carruthers, partly because Andy’s intermittent 
chords irritated him, and partly because he really delighted 
in Ascher’s playing, would not be denied. 

“Yes, I do want it,” he said. “I would like some now. 
No, I don’t want tea for hours yet, and I won’t be deserted 
if I hear you playing. Play the Waldstein and all the 
Fantasie-stiicke and the Ballades and any others you can 
think of. I have a feeling that it will quite cure my in- 
fluenza. And tell Mrs. Abercrombie that the Investigation 
is getting on,” he added. 

“All right, sir,” said Ascher, wdth as good a grace as he 
could, which was not very good; for, such was his state of 
mind, that he did not feel in the mood even for Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, and it was not until he was slowly and unwillingly 
ascending the stair at Mrs. Binnie’s end that he really be- 
gan to pay attention to what Mr. Carruthers had called the 
Incantation. 

“Whatever is it?” he asked himself then. 

It seemed familiar and yet unfamiliar. Now and again 
a subject, he was sure he knew, emerged for a few bars, 
and then was lost again in a maze of melodies. He paused 
on the landing, half unwilling to enter, half interested. 

“It’s like a mixture of Bach and Debussy,” he said to 
himself. “A ridiculous mixture — but wonderfully clever. 
Who in the world can have put it together?” 

He knocked at the door, but the playing went on un- 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 173 

interruptedly. Andy, in the thick of the last stretto on the 
tonic pedal, was going ahead now in fine style, and it was 
not until she had struck the very last chord of all, that she 
looked up, and in the mirror opposite saw Ascher in the 
doorway. 

Absorbed still in the music she sat looking at him in her 
grave way, her sombre eyes meeting his thoughtfully in the 
depths of the glass, while he stood still on the threshold, 
uncertain whether he should come in or go back. He still 
wore the old grey tweeds which Mrs. Abercrombie had in- 
sisted upon his keeping, and these, together with his fair 
hair and his colourlessness, made him look like an appari- 
tion. His sad eyes, however, were not ghostly. 

“And I knew by them, somehow,” Andy said to Mrs. 
Abercrombie afterwards, “that this must be the man you 
wanted me to take an interest in.” 

“Oh, come in,” she said, rising and turning towards him, 
still gravely. “You are Mr. Ascher, are you not? My — 
Aunt — Mrs. Abercrombie told me to expect you. I am Miss 
Kinross.” 

She held out a welcoming hand, and remembered long 
afterwards that he hesitated before taking it. 

“I beg your pardon for interrupting,” he said then, how- 
ever, almost brusquely, for the sight of Andy face to face 
had made him, for the moment, feel something akin to 
breathlessness. 

Andy indeed, though distraught and dishevelled and robed 
in an old brown gown, had never looked more lovely. She 
was pale with fatigue, but the fire of accomplishment was 
in her eyes, and in every line of her the grace of absolute 
unselfconsciousness. 

“You are not interrupting at all,” she said. “I am de- 
lighted to see you. You have come in the nick of time to 
criticise. I was just trying over my fugue.” 

The word might have been a magic one. At the sound 
of it, the seer — the man — changed before her eyes into the 
musician. 


174 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Your fugue?” he exclaimed, looking past her at the 
manuscript on the piano. 

“Yes,” she said, turning towards it again, “on a subject 
of Bach’s from the Wohltemperiertes Klavier. The third 
in the second volume. Do you know it?” 

“Know it?” he cried. “But do you mean to say you 
wrote it — re-wrote it I mean?” 

“I have just finished it,” she answered, handing it to him. 

He was silent for a moment as he looked over the 
pencilled score in the manner of one who is well-accustomed. 
She watched him curiously as his glance passed from line 
to line, now backwards, now forwards, and, as he studied 
her work, she studied him, noting the slim strength of the 
hands that held the manuscript, the strange haggard beauty 
of the face bent above it, the keen intentness that had 
come into the tragic eyes. 

“Who is he like?” she wondered. Then into her mind 
came the remembrance of a frontispage on which was a 
sketch in profile of a young war-poet. 

“He’s like Rupert Brooke,” she decided, “only older and 
sadder.” 

Even as the thought struck her he looked up again. 

“Bravo!” he said heartily. “But why not your own 
subject?” 

“Don’t you see?” she said, eagerly responding to his ap- 
preciation. “I am taking lessons direct from Bach. After 
tea I am going to compare it with the original.” 

“After tea?” exclaimed Ascher. “But won’t you please 
do it now? Have you the score here? I can’t tell you how 
much I shall enjoy it. Will you let me play it for you while 
you do your comparing?” 

“Oh, thank you,” said Andy, glad to see him entertained, 
though, truth to tell, she would have preferred to do her 
comparing in solitude. “It is good of you!” she added, en- 
deavouring to make her voice seem cordial, as she fetched 
the Bach from the writing-table. 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 175 

“Is that Miss Kinross playing?” said Mrs. Abercrombie 
to Young Ellen half an hour later, when she had been in- 
formed that tea was ready. 

“No, M’m, it’s Mr. Ascher,” said Ellen. “An’ I’ve taken 
in an extry cup for he looks like’s he was goin’ to stay, 
M’m.” 

“Oh, he looks like’s he was going to stay, does he?” said 
Mrs. Abercrombie, when she was alone again, addressing the 
photograph of Andy’s Archie on the mantelpiece, while she 
thoughtfully adjusted a black neck-ribbon. 

“Am I an old fool to keep her here, or am I not?” she 
demanded next. But Andy’s Archie, though he looked an 
absolute dear, as he always had looked, did not answer her. 

She found her guests leaning on the piano lid, and laugh- 
ing over the two scores which were spread out between 
them upon it. 

“It’s Debussified,” said Ascher. “You don’t mind my 
telling you, do you? I wonder what old Bach would have 
said to it.” 

“I know what he would have said to your playing of him 
anyhow,” said Andy. 

He looked up swiftly and met her shining eyes, then 
flushed with pleasure, said with a slight return of his former 
brusqueness — “Do you mind if I go on playing then, Miss 
Kinross? I was sent here really to play to Mr. Carruthers.” 

“Mind!” exclaimed Andy. 

“Mind!” echoed Mrs. Abercrombie. 

And thus, for the first time, they became aware of her 
presence. 

“What did I tell you, Andy?” she said, after she had 
greeted the new-comer. 

“Not half enough,” said Andy. “Do let’s give him tea 
first, so that he may get going again at the piano.” 

They all laughed together at this, and Ascher, protesting, 
was served first in spite of himself. He only drank one cup, 
however, and then sat down again to play. His mood, in 


176 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

the short time since he had so unwillingly ascended the 
stair, had entirely altered. He was on the heights again — 
the sense of freedom was his once more, the sense of his 
irresponsibility, of his insignificance, and the whole seemed 
somehow to have been irradiated with a warmth and light 
that transfused everything with a strange unaccountable 
light-heartedness. 

“I am dreaming,” he kept saying to himself as he played 
on and on. “I am certainly dreaming. Presently I shall 
wake.” 

And then he paused at the end of an etude, sad and 
joyous and triumphant all in one. 

“It is like a dream,” said Andy suddenly, as though she 
had perceived his thought. “I had forgotten that there was 
such music.” 

The words came to him through the dusk from where she 
sat, a dim shadow near one of the windows. 

“That’s why — I suppose — I had the impudence to write,’ 1 
she added suddenly, after a moment. 

“Silence!” said Mrs. Abercrombie from her seat by the 
fireplace. “You shall play no more, Mr. Ascher, if that is 
the effect you are going to produce.” 

Ascher laughed and sprang up. 

“I must play no more to-night, anyhow,” he said. “Mr. 
Carruthers, though he is probably quite unaware of it, has 
had no tea yet.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Abercrombie when they were alone 
again, poking up the fire and ringing the bell at the same 
time. “I need not ask what you think of him, Andy.” 

“Oh, Aunt Em!” exclaimed Andy, and no more was 
needed. 

“He gave me such splendid tips too about that fugue of 
mine,” she added presently, “that I feel I must re-write it' 
to-night from the beginning to the end. Shall you mind?” 

“Mind? Not a bit,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “but, before 
you begin it, I insist that you go out with me for a walk. 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 177 

There’s a moon, and the wind has fallen, and you’ll do your 
work the better for it.” 

They walked therefore after dinner quite a long way down 
the road, but Andy — for a brilliant girl — was a surprisingly 
dull companion. She said “Yes,” when Mrs. Abercrombie 
asked her if the moon were not lovely, and “Yes,” again 
when she drew her attention to the Japanesey effect of a 
bare branch athwart it. 

“If I had been — anybody else — I would have been bored 
to death,” soliloquised her future aunt. “I wonder how 
Archie — But of course he has never seen her fugue-pos- 
sessed,” she reminded herself. 

This thought lent a piquancy to the situation that it had 
lacked, and a wonder and a mystery, and made the walk 
quite interesting, though all that Andy said on the way back 
from the milestone where they turned, till they came to the 
Dove-cote again, was, 

“Aunt Em — isn’t that moon lovely?” 

As they came near the door a tall figure passed them in 
the dimness, coming away from the Dove-cote, and no 
sooner had Mrs. Abercrombie reached her room, and taken 
off her cloak, than there was a knock at the door. 

In answer to her “Come ini” Ellen entered. 

“Bob Lindsay’s jist been here, M’m,” she announced, 
“an’ I jist thocht I would like to tell ye that it’s all settled, 
and we’re to be cried on Sunday and mairried on the Mon- 
day.” 

“But my good Ellen,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, 
startled. “Have you considered ” 

“No, M’m, I’ve considered naething,” replied Young 
Ellen, “for the mair I consider the mair trouble I get intil. 
If I had considered less it would ha’ been better for me. 
I’ve made up my mind never to consider ony mair. Guid 
nicht an’ thenk ye kindly, M’m, for a’ ye’ve done.” 

“But it seems I have done nothing,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, conscience-stricken, as she heard the bride-elect go 


Ii 7 8 the man with the lamp 

into her room and bang the door. She did it with an air 
of finality evidently calculated to show not only decision, 
but satisfaction with that decision. 

It, however, by no means satisfied Mrs. Abercrombie, and 
not being one of those who on such occasions keep them- 
selves to themselves, she determined to seek out Mrs. Bin- 
nie. 

As she went softly downstairs not to attract Young Ellen’s 
attention, she remembered other crises of the same kind at 
which she had assisted. 

“Only they were mostly after marriage,” she reminded 
herself, “when everything is so much more complicated. 
All that this needs is merely a little smoothing out. Ellen 
is a born old maid, and that is the short and the long of it.” 

With these thoughts still in her mind she entered the open 
door of the kitchen, expecting to find Mrs. Binnie there, 
settling things up for the night. To her immense surprise, 
however, the only occupant was a stout figure in a grey 
overcoat, standing with his back to her and engrossed ap- 
parently in the clock. He was humming to himself some- 
thing under his breath, which had neither time nor tune, 
and was twisting a soft hat, which he held in both hands 
behind his back, in a nervous manner. 

“Mr. Dunwiddie!” she exclaimed, but remembering even 
in her surprise to exclaim softly. 

The grocer wheeled and confronted her. 

“Yes, M’m,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve been thinkin’ 
things over and settled in my mind that it’s not my place to 
retire from the affair we was speakin’ about this morning, 
M’m, but Bob Lindsay’s.” 

After he had pronounced the word Lindsay, he com- 
pressed his lips upon it in a determined manner. 

“You are quite right, Mr. Dunwiddie,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie with enthusiasm, before she remembered the latest 
development of the affair. 

Then, however, her face fell. 

“But are you aware,” she added, “that the engagement 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 179 

with Bob Lindsay is now quite settled? and that — in short 
— he has just left the house?” 

“Yes, M’m, I am aware,” said Mr. Dunwoodie, darkly. 
“I saw him pass, shakin’ his fist up at my house, though 
he never saw me — and it was that, M’m, that settled me. 
Mrs. Abercrombie, M’m, it’s a thing I will not stand, to 
have the minister told when he comes back that I, bein’ 
what I am, was feared to mairry Ellen because an impident 
young neer-do-weel said afore a’ the place that, if I did, he 
would pit me through my bacon-slicer. Mrs. Abercrombie, 
M’m, I’ve come to say to-night that — come what may — I 
will mairry Ellen.” 

As his excitement rose, his voice rose also. 

“Oh, hush!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Don’t let Ellen 
hear you yet — where can Mrs. Binnie be?” 

Even as she spoke, as though in answer to her question, 
Old Ellen, carrying a candle and a bundle of linen, entered. 

She had been celebrating the engagement by looking 
through the linen-press in the attic where all the best linen 
was kept and deciding upon which items thereof could be 
spared for Young Ellen. She had brought down the table- 
cloth too for the wedding-feast, a fine hand-made one, an 
heir-loom, which only saw the light at great functions. 

Mrs. Abercrombie always afterwards remembered with 
admiration how, under those circumstances, Mrs. Binnie re- 
ceived Mr. Dunwiddie. There was both presence of mind 
and diplomacy in her handling of the situation. 

That Peter should be there at that hour, of course, must 
mean something unusual. Either he must have heard of the 
engagement and have come to offer his congratulations, or 
he must not yet have heard of it and have come to press 
his own suit. In the latter contingency it would be regret- 
table should he be altogether silenced, Young Ellen being 
at the present moment in floods of tears upstairs, and this 
belated admirer so much the better match. 

“Weel, Peter?” she said, coming forward to the table, and 


180 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

laying down her armful of linen. “Weel, Peter ?” nothing 
more. 

It was quite sufficient. 

“Mrs. Binnie,” said Peter, standing very stiff and very 
straight, “I’m sorry to trouble ye so late but my business’ll 
no’ keep. I hear that yer niece Ellen, than whom a better 
young woman never stepped, is to mairry Bob Lindsay o’ 
Broadlees an’ I’ve come in to see if that’s the case.” 

“Weel, Peter,” said Mrs. Binnie again, “whatever she 
may ha’ been driven till, she’s no’ mairried yet, and at this 
present moment she is in her bed up the stair greetin’ fit to 
break her heart. Mak’ what ye like o’ that.” 

“I will,” said Mr. Dunwiddie resolutely. “Will ye ask 
her to come doon, an’ I’ll pit it to her afore witnesses 
whether she wants me or Bob?” 

“Shall I go, too?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, tactfully, when 
Mrs. Binnie had gone away on her errand. 

“No, if ye please, M’m,” said Peter. “I’ll tak’ nae risks 
this time. I’ll ha’ twa witnesses.” 

“And there he stood,” Mrs. Abercrombie related after- 
wards, “as though he were ready to cope with anything. 
He ought to have had his portrait taken. There would* 
have been time for it too, that impossible Ellen took such 
ages coming.” 

The sound of subdued arguing indeed went on and on 
upstairs, till Mrs. Abercrombie, unable to bear Peter’s sus- 
pense any longer, went up herself, and arrived breathless in 
Ellen’s room. 

She found her still in bed and in tears, and Mrs. Binnie 
in desperation. 

“Very weel, Ellen,” she was just saying. “I’ll jist ha’ to 
gang doon an’ say guid nicht to him then.” 

“You will do nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
appearing behind her. “Get up this minute, Ellen!” 

“I’ll no’ see him,” said Ellen, sobbing. “He’s jist doin’ 
this to spite Bob an’ show the place that he’s no’ feared o’ 
him. Tell him he’s ower late, an’ it’s a’ settled.” 


ON THE KNEES OF THE GODS 181 


“He shall be told nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “Settled! Do you call this settled? You have 
done nothing but weep so far as I have heard, ever since 
you were engaged to Bob, and even if your aunt would per- 
mit you to marry him I utterly refuse to do so — whether it 
is my business or not, at least until you have seen Mr. Dun- 
widdie.” 

After that, according to Mrs. Abercrombie, everything 
simply went like clock-work, and, if no engagement took 
place between Mr. Dunwiddie and Ellen that night, they 
at least declared themselves unequivocally, and Ellen prom- 
ised to disentangle herself as soon as might be from Bob, 
who, she said, had forced her into the engagement when she 
was in low spirits. It was also arranged that, this necessary 
preliminary over, there would be no more talk of weddings 
till Bob was safely off to France. Then, however, come 
what might — as Mr. Dunwiddie repeated holding the still 
weeping Ellen by the hand — he would make her his wife. 

After this last speech, showing a fine sense of dramatic 
fitness and appreciation of climax Mr. Dunwiddie left, and 
Mrs. Abercrombie, feeling that she had done her part and 
was now de trop, also made her exit. 

Following a natural impulse to share her experience, she 
was in the sitting-room before she remembered the fugue 
fiend. 

He was there before her, however, and in full possession. 

Andy never so much as looked up. 

Her hostess tested her in various ways. She poked the 
fire, brought out refreshments, creaked the cupboard door, 
shut and opened drawers. 

“No — so long as I do not play the piano or burst into 
song I shall be to her as though I were not,” she said to 
herself at last. 

“Which is a great comfort,” she added, as she sank into 
her accustomed chair. “To be absolutely non-existent is 
to be free. I shall tell Archie that.” 

She took up her book and her knitting then, and sat on 


[182 the man with the lamp 

in comfortable silence, till, still in silence and still un- 
noticed, she went off to bed. 

After the shutting of her door the whole house seemed 
to sink from hour to hour into ever deeper rest. 

Two of its inhabitants, however, unknown to each other, 
kept watch till morning. Andy working on demon-driven, 
and Ascher, who could not sleep. . . , 


CHAPTER IX 


IN WHICH THE FUGUE DEMON TAKES AN EIGHT HOURS* REST, 
AND MRS. ABERCROMBIE RETURNS THE CALL OF MR. 
CARRUTHERS 

It was Andy who appeared first at the eight-o’clock break- 
fast-table. She looked surprised when her hostess exclaimed 
in horror at finding her seated there. 

“Fool that I am!” Mrs. Abercrombie exclaimed, “I for- 
got last night to give orders, that you were not to be 
called.” 

“Oh, please don’t mind,” laughed Andy. “I had three 
hours’ sleep, and that, with a hot bath and a cold sponge 
after it, is quite sufficient.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie shook her head despairingly. 

“Did you finish the fugue?” she asked. 

“Yes — and it has finished me,” replied Andy. “At least 
for to-day. I haven’t an idea in my head. I shall simply 
slack all the time and talk to you if you will let me.” 

“You dear thing!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie, clapping her 
hands delightedly. “I am enchanted to hear you say so. 
I shall be charmed to have you — you — and not the demon 
— beside me, even if only for one day. I was beginning to 
feel eerie with the demon.” 

At this Andy gravely laid down her coffee-cup, and 
leaned her folded arms on the table. 

“Dear Aunt Em,” she said, “you see now what I mean, 
don’t you? I am glad you have seen. Now you will be 
able to judge.” 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, returning her grave 
183 


184 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

look steadily, “I can’t judge yet. Wait till I have seen you 
in one of your off-times first.” 

There was a pause before Andy spoke. 

“You are a comfort, Aunt Em,” she said then, quietly. 
“You are so absolutely honest. You would tell me straight 
what you thought, wouldn’t you, even if you knew that it 
would hurt me — or — or Archie?” 

“I am afraid I would have to, Andy,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “I am made like that, you see. I wouldn’t be 
able to help myself.” 

“And my Archie is very much to you?” Andy went on, 
watching her. 

“More than any, save one, has ever been,” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie, her brown eyes softening. 

“Then,” said Andy, “I leave it all to you, Aunt Em. I 
have thought and thought till I can think no more.” 

She swept back the dusky hair from her forehead. 

“Oh, I am thankful I came!” she added. 

With these words she rose, and, before Mrs. Abercrombie 
had realised what was going to happen, the girl’s arms were 
round her neck, and her warm cheek was pressed to hers. 

“Aunt Em — dear Aunt Em,” she whispered, “I am so 
glad I have you — I am so glad.” 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, much moved, “I 
hope you will always have reason to be glad. God knows I 
want to do the very best that is in my power to do for you 
and Archie.” 

They hugged each other close for a moment, and shed a 
tear or two together. Then, by tacit consent, the little 
ebullition was over. Andy returned to her seat, and both 
of them to their breakfasts, and the rest of the meal went 
merrily. 

As on the night of the arrival, they vied with each other 
in keeping the ball of conversation rolling, and this exercise, 
by unconscious degrees, put them into an adventurous and 
lightsome mood. 

It was lovely weather, and, to the consternation of the 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 185 

two Ellens, who had never heard of such a thing being done 
at such a time of year, they took their lunch out with them, 
and had it near a little amber stream, that wandered, as 
though it had lost its way, through the middle of a wood. 
They gathered sticks and made a fire and talked of every- 
thing in heaven and on the earth. 

Neither of them will ever forget that day — a summer’s 
day set in the midst of winter, vivid with russet beech-leaves 
and scarlet hips and emerald moss. Dusk found them 
seated on a fallen tree-trunk, and still talking. 

“Let’s have tea here too,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“I feel as though I could never leave this place. It is, as 
Browning would have said, aware, of all that has happened 
here ... of these tall, clean grey stems of the beeches that 
have grown up here to be the splendid giants they are; of 
the moss that through slow ages has been spreading this 
wonderful carpet; of the myriads of leaves that have been 
born and have died here; of the dawns and sunsets, noons 
and midnights here, that no mortal eyes have looked upon ; 
of the songs of birds and sighing winds and winter blasts 
that have been heard by no human being. ... No wonder 
it is aware! Through hundreds of years it has come to be a 
shrine more full than any cathedral of memories of beauti- 
ful things. . . . Must we leave it now when it is all so per- 
fect? Couldn’t we wait to see how it looks at night? . . . 
We have two buns left and the gingerbread.” 

But Andy, who had responded, and more, all day to 
everything, did not respond this time. 

“Is it tea-time?” she said, slipping down from her place 
on the tree-trunk. “Well, I’m sorry, Aunt Em, but I am 
afraid I must get back again now.” 

“But how stodgy of you!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. “Are 
you cold, then, or bored or what?” 

“I am perfectly happy,” laughed Andy. “But I have my 
letter to Archie to write yet before Mr. Ascher ” 

“Of course, I had forgotten,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
sighing. “He is coming to see your fugue.” 


186 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


“And to play I hope,” said Andy. “I can’t tell you how 
much his playing helps me.” 

“Helps the demon you mean,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
ruefully. “Well, I suppose it’s the turn of the demon again. 
I can’t complain either, I have had a good innings.” 

They packed up then, and presently they moved off home- 
wards. It was almost dark when they reached the village 
street. Lights glowed here and there in the scattered houses? 
The wood beyond was dim like a grey mist. 

“How strange it is,” said Andy softly, “to think of what 
is going on outside this quiet place, the strife — the agony 
— we are cut off in here — between the woods. Here nothing 
but the shadows of things can trouble us.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie nodded but she did not speak. Her 
heart had become unaccountably heavy. One of her fits of 
depression was upon her, and, tracing it back to its begin- 
ning, she found that she had been unconsciously warding 
it off all day, ever since the morning and Andy’s little 
ebullition. 

There had been something strangely touching in the girl’s 
confidence and self-abandonment, something that smote 
her, too, with a sense of her own unfitness. 

“It’s a shame,” she said to herself, “that her happiness 
and Archie’s should depend on the judgment of an old in- 
competent.” 

This thought became so strong in her and made her so 
miserable, that when she reached her own room the first 
thing she did was to kneel down at her bedside. 

“O God!” she said, burying her face in the quilt, “do 
Thou Who art so high that all the future is plain to Thee, 
lighten my darkness, for Christ’s sake.” 

She felt better after this, and, when she had changed and 
established herself in the sitting-room where the lamp was 
lighted and tea ready, she had quite recovered. 

After tea they both wrote letters to Archie. 

Andy’s was the longer letter. A vague remorse had 
possession of her. She remembered how short and per- 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 187 

functory her note of the day before had been. In the quiet 
of the wood all day long, too, her thoughts had been turning 
to her soldier lover, and on her return she had found a 
letter from him, scribbled in pencil, all but illegible. 

“My darling,” it ran, “I have only time now to say again 
I love you — love you — love you, and that the thought of 
you in your quiet room, spinning your magic webs of music, 
goes with me everywhere, through thick and thin. 

“When to dream of you is so wonderful — what will it be 
to see you again, to have, to hold you? . . . 

“I dare not think of it now. It seems too good to be 
true. Archie.” 

“The wood reminded me of you,” she wrote. “Strange, 
was it not? when your work is war and it was all so peace- 
ful, but to me your heart is like the wood — filled with the 
things I love — dear familiar things — and always there to 
receive your wild bird however far afield she may have 
flown from you.” 

Even as she wrote these words, however, her critical 
faculty awoke within her. She realised the conceit, the 
utter selfishness of this point of view. 

“How dare I write to him like this?” she said to herself, 
“when perhaps at this very moment he is meeting danger, 
perhaps death? I talk as though it were a privilege for him 
to stand and wait my pleasure, when in reality I am not fit 
to black his boots.” 

She tore up what she had written, and began again on 
another sheet, while Mrs. Abercrombie, apparently absorbed 
in her own thoughts, watched her. 

“She is having difficulties too,” she said to herself, as she 
continued her own letter. 

“I have had a great day with your Andy,” she wrote. 
“She is a charming girl, and I don’t wonder you are in love 
with her. She is one of the best comrades I have ever met, 
and you know that is saying much. I say it too, even after 


188 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


a day spent — all yesterday — in her company hardly ex- 
changing a remark. This was not because we had quar- 
relled, but because her Demon had possession of her — you 
know what I mean — her genius — her power of taking pains 
— or whatever it is that does take possession of her. She 
was for nearly twenty-four hours — twenty-four hours, my 
dear — absorbed in her work. You will have to reckon with 
this, my Archie. During those demoniac times you will be 
non-existent, or existent only as an imperceptible wraith 
coming and going, in her presence unnoticed. That is what 
I was yesterday, and I confess that, though I had been 
used to artists, it gave me an eerie feeling. But to-day I 
have got over it, and so will you, my dear, if ever you suffer 
from it, which probably you won’t. In the off- times she is 
so charming, so affectionate, so delightful in every way, that 
she far more than makes up for the intermediate lapses, and 
I tell you, Archie, that I would rather have her with me 
now, though she never spoke to me again till Doomsday, 
than any other girl I know of.” 

She had to pause here as something had gone wrong with 
her pen, and, before she began writing again, she read over 
what she had written. “You will have to delete,” she solilo- 
quised before she had read three sentences. “Surely he has 
more than enough on his mind just now, in full career after 
Germans, without these metaphysics.” 

Therefore she tore up her letter too, and wrote another 
all about Young Ellen and her complicated love-affairs, 
which made Archie, when he received it, shriek with laugh- 
ter. All she said about Andy was in two sentences at the 
end. 

“She is a dear girl,” she said, “one of the dearest girls 
that ever lived; but you can’t love her too much. She will 
need all your love.” 

Andy was still writing, and when she had finished ad- 
dressing her envelope Mrs. Abercrombie took up the morn- 
ing’s paper, which was still lying unopened on the table, 
and at once became absorbed in it. 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 189 

“Listen to this, Andy,” she said presently. “Just think 
what these unutterable cads have done now. They have 
been beaten back beyond Valenciennes, but before they left 
it they smashed all the lace-machines — smashed them — 
made them useless. Even if they had taken them with 
them one could have pardoned it.” 

“They seem to have been trying all along,” said Andy, 
as she folded up her letter, “to make themselves unpar- 
donable.” 

“And they have succeeded,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“More than succeeded,” said Andy; “and they have 
taught us to hate too. I for one did not know what it 
meant before this war. Now I can both hate and loathe. 
It is a strange lesson they have taught me.” 

They were sitting with their backs to the door, but here 
some slight sound made them turn towards it. 

“Mr. Ascher!” they exclaimed together. 

“When did you come in?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I 
did not hear you.” 

“You were reading aloud,” he said hoarsely. “I did 
not wish to interrupt.” 

He was pale as death and his lips were trembling. 

“It’s hearing about the war,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to 
herself, and as she tossed away the paper, she took the 
opportunity of being turned away from Ascher to grimace 
warningly at Andy. At the same time she exclaimed 
aloud — 

“But we are delighted to be interrupted. We have 
been looking forward all day to hearing you play again. 
Haven’t we, Andy?” 

“Oh— I — I don’t think I can play to-night,” said Ascher. 
“I— Mr. Carruthers wants me — I just came to tell you I 
couldn’t play.” 

“Then we reply that we don’t believe you,” said Mrs. 
Abercrombie, determined not to allow him to go away 
before it was absolutely necessary, for his face was just 


igo THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

as it had been on that first night. “We can’t let you go. 
Can we, Andy?” she persisted. 

“No,” Andy joined in. “Most certainly not, Mr. Ascher. 
Do you know I sat up all last night — didn’t I, Aunt Em? — 
to rewrite that fugue for you.” 

At this, a faint flush rose in his ghastly cheeks, the set 
lines about his mouth relaxed a little. 

“You sat up?” he said — incredulously. 

“I wasn’t in bed till five,” said Andy, “and working hard 
all the time carrying out your suggestions. And now — oh, 
you are disappointing!” 

“Ah, but the fugue is different. I can wait for that,” he 
said. “May I play your score this time while you watch 
the Bach?” 

In five minutes they were absorbed, while Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, surreptitiously taking up her paper, went on read- 
ing peacefully. When after about three-quarters of ah 
hour, however, they were still at counterpoint, with no sign 
of coming to a conclusion, and every sign on the contrary 
of going on till midnight, the remembrance of Mr. Car- 
ruthers began to trouble her. 

“Does James really want him?” she asked herself, and 
it worried her to think of James, convalescent and alone, 
listening, perhaps in irritation and misery, to these detached 
subjects and counter-subjects. At last, unable to stand the 
thought of him any longer, she rose and slipped out, as 
she expected, unnoticed. . . . 

In the kitchen she found Mrs. Binnie and Ellen seated, 
knitting, apparently in subdued mood. Both rose as she 
entered. 

“I am going over to return Mr. Carruthers’s call,” she 
said. “If Miss Kinross asks for me tell her where I have 
gone.” 

“Very good, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie. 

Young Ellen did not answer. 

She had evidently been weeping copiously. 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 191 

“Well, Niobe,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “how goes the 
Affair? You do not seem to be very happy yet.” 

“No, M’m, I am not,” said Ellen, accepting and indeed 
not noticing her new name, so engaged was she in blinking 
back more tears. “I’ve just told Bob, M’m, and he took it 
so well it near broke my heart.” 

“But I should have thought you would have been glad,” 
said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“So I am, M’m, so I am,” said Ellen; “but Bob took 
it that well and I am that sorry for him — that’s what it 
is.” 

“It’s a great pity,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to Mrs. Bin- 
nie, who came as escort with her as far as the door of Mr. 
Carruthers’s end, “that poor Ellen cannot marry them both. 
She seems to regret the one just as much as the other. Did 
Bob really take it as well as she says?” 

“Yes, M’m, strange to say,” said Mrs. Binnie. “I was 
there, for she was feared to tell him — but he took it like a 
lamb, an’ said good-bye then, for he wouldna see her 
again afore he went to France, for he thocht it would be 
better no. He spoke like a book, M’m. I wouldna ha’ 
believed it unless I had heard it. A’ the same,” concluded 
Mrs. Binnie, as, on Mr. Carruthers’s doorstep, she took her 
leave, “there will be nae weddin’ or talk o’ weddin’ till 
he’s safe awa’ if I can help it.” 

Mr. Carruthers was sitting in the writing-room when 
Mrs. Abercrombie looked in, crumpled up in the one chair, 
with a large volume upon his knees. Observing him closely, 
however, she saw that he was not reading, but gazing 
out over the printed page into the glowing depths of the 
fire. 

“He looks as though he were just thinking near the sur- 
face like an ordinary person,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to 
herself, and he must have been doing so, for, at her first 
word, he looked up and rose to greet her. He even had 
the presence of mind to offer her the one chair, but she 


192 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

had already established herself on Ascher’s pile of books. 
She waved him into his seat again. 

“No, no,” she said. “You are still an invalid and I am 
not going to stay. I merely came to apologise.” 

“Indeed?” said Mr. Carruthers. “May I not offer you 
a cigarette?” 

“He is positively human to-night,” thought Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. 

Aloud she said — 

“Certainly, thank you, James, if it will not bore you to 
have a talk.” 

“I want a talk,” said Mr. Carruthers, while she made her 
selection from his case. “I want to know for one thing 
what you have been doing with my assistant.” 

“With your assistant?” she exclaimed. “You mean Mr. 
Ascher?” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers; “an extraordinary change 
has come over him since he left me yesterday afternoon in 
response to your — incantation.” 

“But it wasn’t mine,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “It wasn’t 
really an incantation at all — it was only Andy playing her 
fugue over.” 

“Oh, Andy is the name, is it?” said James sourly. “I 
had not heard it before. I have heard a great deal never- 
theless. Who in the name of sense is she?” 

Mrs. Abercrombie laughed. 

“Another musician like himself,” she replied. 

“So I gathered,” said Mr. Carruthers. “But is that all 
she is?” 

“By no means,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “She is quite 
beautiful. I think Beatrice must have been like her, and 
Juliet, and Isabella. Also — in the intervals of composition 
— she is one of the most companionable and charming of 
girls. Incidentally — in case it may be of interest to you, 
James — she has just become engaged to my favourite 
nephew.” 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 193 

“Ah!” said James suddenly. There was no mistaking 
the tone of the exclamation. 

Mrs. Abercrombie laughed again. 

“You seem pleased,” she said. 

“I have reason to be,” he replied. “I know by experi- 
ence that there is nothing like an unhappy love affair for 
making a man stick in to his work.” 

“Or give it up altogether,” suggested Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie. 

“Oh, that will be only temporary,” said Mr. Carruthers, 
lighting another cigarette. “He will get over that.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie was silent for a moment, regarding her 
companion curiously, as one might gaze from a new stand- 
point at a familiar object. She noted with fresh interest 
his unkempt look, his rusty clothes, his shabby slippers. 

“I wonder who she was,” she said to herself, “who taught 
him that.” 

Then an indistinct sound of the piano from next door 
recalled her to the subject in hand. 

“I do not pretend not to understand you, James,” she 
said. “But are you not rather jumping to conclusions?” 

“No, I am deducing from observations,” said James. 

“Then you gather ” 

“I gather,” said Mr. Carruthers, “that your future niece 
is like her future aunt.” 

“Flatterer!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“And that Ascher,” Mr. Carruthers went on, “that 
Ascher ” 

“Is likely to be susceptible,” Mrs. Abercrombie finished 
for him. 

Mr. Carruthers nodded gravely. 

“Which — if your Andy had been likely to be susceptible 
too — might have meant calamity,” he added suddenly. 

“I see your point of view, James,” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie. “But, pardon me for saying so, I think it an unkind 
one. I gather — you see I am using your word — that you 


194 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

think the Investigation should outweigh all other considera- 
tions.” 

“I do,” said Mr. Carruthers emphatically. “Most cer- 
tainly I do.” 

“So that, even if Andy had been free to fall in love with 
him, you would have disapproved of any close personal 
relation between her and Ascher?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

To her surprise James started up, and sat uncrumpled 
and erect before her. 

“Most certainly I would,” he exclaimed, glaring at her 
in a kind of consternation. “Close personal relation? 
Nothing would have induced me to allow it.” 

“Then it is fortunate that there will be no need for you 
to worry about it,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, wondering at his 
excitement. “I was merely supposing the case for the sake 
of argument.” 

“Don’t suppose it, don’t suppose it,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“I won’t then,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, shrugging her 
shoulders and flicking away the subject with the ashes from 
her cigarette. “But,” she paused for a moment, “you make 
me curious. You talk as though Ascher ” 

“I have nothing whatever against Ascher,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers hastily. 

“Then your objection to his being happy would be solely 
on account of the Investigation, James?” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. 

“And would not that be reason enough?” cried Mr. 
Carruthers. “Here am I on the verge of the Discovery — 
having even in a — Memory heard the language of the 
script ” 

“Oh, James,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “Heard it? 
Are you sure?” 

“As sure as that you are sitting there,” cried the Investi- 
gator. “All I need is security from interruption, tangible 
and intangible — especially the latter — and here I am beset 
— beset , I tell you, with all kinds of distractions simply 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 195 

because of the proximity of this Andy of yours. Since he 
met her, Ascher has been practically useless.” 

“Oh, you are imagining this, James,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie incredulously. 

“Pardon me, I am not,” replied the Investigator. “Since 
last night he has had no regard for anything. He has 
allowed all manner of interruptions to pass, from perturb- 
ing suggestions down to Mrs. Binnie herself. Now, how- 
ever, what you have told me gives me some hope that 
this torment will soon be over, and that in the end it may 
prove a blessing in disguise, by clinching him to me and 
the Investigation for the remainder of his present exist- 
ence.” 

“Poor Ascher!” soliloquised Mrs. Abercrombie, but aloud 
she said — “Well for your sake, James, and for the sake 
of the Investigation, I hope so.” 

She received no answer to this speech, and presently 
feeling that she herself had become, or was about to become, 
an interruption, she took her departure. 

As she emerged from the doorway she heard the other 
door shut, and footsteps approaching along the gravel path. 
Not being disposed, however, to meet Ascher at that mo- 
ment, she withdrew behind a laurel-bush until he had 
passed. 

“You did not manage to make him play?” she said to 
Andy, whom she found closing the piano. 

“No — he was rather strange to-night,” said Andy. 

But she said no more, and Mrs. Abercrombie did not 
question her. 

• •••«•• 

At that moment, however, in the writing-room through 
the wall, another conversation was taking place. 

“I am afraid I have been away too long, sir,” said Ascher, 
entering. “I was asked to look over a — a fugue — and that 
detained me longer than I expected.” 

“A fugue?” said Mr. Carruthers. “Written by the youn^ 
musician you spoke of?” 


ig6 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Yes,” said Ascher. 

“Any good?” asked Mr. Carruthers. 

“Quite a brilliant piece of work,” said Ascher. 

“She may go far then, may she — this girl?” 

“Very far, sir,” said Ascher shortly. 

“It’s a pity she’s a woman,” said James. 

To this there was no answer. 

“Women’s success depends so much upon the men they 
marry,” Mr. Carruthers went on. “Won’t you sit down, 
Ascher?” 

Ascher sat down. 

“It’s to be hoped that this girl’s fiance appreciates her,” 
Mr. Carruthers continued. “It is fortunately almost cer- 
tain that he does — since he is an Abercrombie. Mrs. Aber- 
crombie has just told me that he is her favourite nephew.” 

“Oh, then — that will be all right, sir! ” said Ascher quietly. 

“Quite all right,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I was very 
pleased to hear it. What you had told me last night about 
Miss — about Miss ” 

“Kinross?” prompted Ascher. 

“Kinross,” repeated James, “interested me very much; 
but, until I heard this to-night, I was sorry for her. 
Women’s success, as I have said, depends so much on other 
things. Only a man can ever find full satisfaction in his 
work.” 

With these words Mr. Carruthers ended his references to 
Andy, and neither of the two men spoke of her again that 
night. This was not because of the Investigation, however, 
which progressed no whit. 

Mr. Carruthers afterwards described his state of mind as 
being like that of a man, who, finding his skiff caught in a 
rapid, knows that all he can do is to sit tight, and wait till 
it emerges into smooth water again. 

Ascher, working all evening at making extracts from some 
library books, which had to be returned on the following 


THE DEMON TAKES A REST 197 

day, did not attempt to describe his state of mind even to 
himself, and could not have done so if he had. 

The truth is that his mental condition that night could 
not have been correctly described as a state at all. Changes 
had been taking place in it from moment to moment, ever 
since the opening of the door of Mrs. Abercrombie’s sitting- 
room. 

He had gone over to the Other End almost in buoyant 
mood. All day the thought of going had been at the back 
of his consciousness, setting his whole being quietly astir 
and aglow with anticipation. The evening before had been 
but a foretaste, a wonderful revelation to himself of his 
power to give Andy pleasure. To-night he had determined 
should be a revelation to her. He would summon down 
the gods for her. It was while he was thinking out a 
programme, which should lead from enchantment to en- 
chantment, that Mrs. Binnie passed through the cordon of 
his attention, and penetrating to the inner sanctuary asked, 
please what did Mr. Carruthers want for dinner, for Mr. 
Ascher had never come over to order anything. . . .New 
vistas should open before Andy’s sombre eyes. As one 
might take a latent artist into a gallery of masterpieces, so 
would he conduct this girl with all her powers and possi- 
bilities into the very vestibule of heaven, whence she might 
look down upon her past achievement, and, seeing it as it 
was, then soar perhaps to heights undreamed of. 

It was this thought, he told himself, this anticipation, this 
hope, that made him long all day for the passing of the 
hours, made him take at last even to counting the minutes. 

But, with the opening of the sitting-room door, all had 
come to nothing at the sound of Mrs. Abercrombie’s voice, 
at the grave finality of Andy’s answer. He had known in 
that moment that it would be impossible for him to play, 
that the gods who, up to that time, had seemed so near, 
were now far beyond his summoning. 

Who was he that he should summon them, or think of 
leading this beautiful girl in her soft red gown — he had 


198 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

not known before that she was so beautiful — into anywhere, 
however heavenly? Was he not one of the unutterable cads 
whom she had learned to hate and loathe? 

“I am one of them,” he had almost cried out in his 
despair and anguish. “I am one of them.” 

The fugue had changed this mood however. Andy’s 
warm and unrestrained admiration for his superior skill 
was as balm to his wounded spirit, while her keen percep- 
tion, ever anticipating his thought, acted upon his interest 
like a powerful stimulant. These together brought him to 
the point of sitting down to the piano again, after he had 
risen on the conclusion of the counterpoint lesson, with the 
idea in his mind of beginning his programme after all, when 
Andy, totally absorbed again, totally inhuman for the time 
being, laid her hand suddenly on his shoulder and said — 
“Oh, do wait just a moment 1” 

He did wait, and it was a moment of moments. 

Again he was transformed. The musician was as though 
he had never been, and in his place was some one unknown 
to him, thrilling, soul and body, to that light touch on 
his shoulder. For one moment only, however — the next his 
heart’s blood seemed to freeze suddenly at the source, 
before it went coursing wildly on again, as Andy said — 
“Are you sure you like that sequence?” 

He had answered at random and come away then, with- 
out playing his programme, almost without saying good- 
bye. 

“I can never see her again. I am a German, I am a 
German,” he was saying in an agony to himself all along 
the gravel path. At the end of his journey, however, Mr. 
Carruthers’s announcement of Andy’s engagement had 
brought him a queer kind of relief. “I shall play to her 
to-morrow,” he was thinking as he copied out notes about 
forgotten kings and queens; “like some wandering minstrel 
she has stopped in passing, outside her palace gates — I shall 
play to her.” 


CHAPTER X 


IN WHICH MR. CARRUTHERS, BEING PREVENTED FROM CON- 
CENTRATING IT UPON THE RUINS OF KNOSSOS, TURNS 
HIS ATTENTION TO THE DOUBLE-BARRING AND COM- 
PLETE SECURING OF OTHER PALACE GATES 

While Ascher, in a strange dream-like serenity for which 
he did not attempt to account, finished his notes and then 
went to bed and slept, it was far otherwise with Mr. Car- 
ruthers. The unhappy Investigator, supposed by his assist- 
ant to be comfortably settled for the night, had in reality 
never been less settled. If he had been beset before he saw 
Mrs. Abercrombie, he was now submerged in the seething 
mass of thoughts evolved by his present mental apparatus 
which, for the moment, had got out of hand altogether. 
The interruption from without had generated interruptions 
within, and the latter, like traitors in the camp, were the 
worst foes he had to face. 

“I shall go off my head altogether if this continues,” he 
said to himself, as he turned his pillow for the twenty-fifth 
time. 

Presently, however, he sat up in bed, and, to his great 
relief, he was able in this position to select from the 
jumble, making for dementia, one practicable idea, which he 
proceeded to consider at some length. As three o’clock 
struck he came to a conclusion. 

“Mrs. Abercrombie is a very good judge,” he said aloud, 
“and she says the girl is like Beatrice and Juliet and Isa- 
bella all in one. If so, she’ll stand it.” 

Then he began to consider details. 

This process was long also, involving more turning of 
199 


200 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

pillows and the smoking of several cigarettes. By the 
time the cocks began to crow in the village, however, his 
thinking was finished and his plan of action made. 

When Ascher, the unconscious cause of all the disturb^ 
ance, entered in the morning, he found his chief peacefully 
asleep, with no sign anywhere of his nocturnal conflict, 
except a few cigarette-ends and a strong smell of tobacco- 
smoke. 

According to orders he did not wake him, but went on 
with his own breakfast and his usual morning tasks, giving 
to the writing-room some semblance of order, and con- 
sulting with Young Ellen about the day’s arrangements. 
This done, and no sign of life yet coming from the bed- 
room, he began with pencil and paper to make out his 
programme for the coming evening, seated in the one chair 
drawn up to the window whence could be seen the encircling 
woods. 

As he sat there with the calm of the night before still 
upon him, deeper and deeper realisation came to him of his 
wonderful good fortune in finding Andy and her strange 
wild music, here, now, when all happiness, all expectation of 
happiness, had seemed done and over. 

A vision rose before him of her as she had been the 
evening before, leaning by him on the piano with the Bach 
score in front of her, and her absorbed gaze meeting his 
from time to time in absolute unconsciousness of everything 
but counterpoint. 

“No other girl would have been any good to me,” he 
said to himself. “But she might be a boy. What a com- 
*ade she is! No more like other girls ” 

He remembered one and another. 

“And an artist — a student to her finger-tips — even a 
genius perhaps — who knows?” 

He sat pondering — thinking of passages in the fugue of 
that night. 

“I shouldn’t wonder,” he said to himself. 

It was a great thought. It was as though a jewel-expert 


OTHER PALACE GATES 


201 


condemned to confinement for life, and passing on his way 
to prison, should have come upon some exquisite gem in 
his path, and have been permitted a moment’s space to 
look at it, to hold it in his hand, to recognise, to appreciate 
it. . . . 

“God, and I can help her too!” he exulted. “She shall 
be the better for my passing.” 

In the absorption of that moment, it is no wonder that 
he did not see Mr. Carruthers appear fully dressed in the 
doorway, nor hear him shortly thereafter go downstairs and 
leave the house. 

But Mr. Carruthers had been more observant than his 
assistant that morning, and, while he was dressing, had seen 
Mrs. Abercrombie leave the Other End, and set off with a 
string-bag full of parcels on her arm, in a business-like man- 
ner, for some unknown destination. He had watched her 
disappear round a bend in the road, beyond which he knew 
that there was no inhabited house within three miles. 
Then quickly completing his toilet by making a futile at- 
tempt to smooth his hair, and convincing himself that his 
hat was lost, he also took the road. 

His destination was not so remote as Mrs. Abercrombie’s, 
however, being no further distant than the Other End, and 
in a wonderfully short space of time he had evaded the 
vigilance of both the Ellens, and ascended the stairs to the 
sitting-room, where Andy was just settling down to work. 

It is probable that a quarter of an hour later he would 
have received no answer to his knock. As things were, 
however, it was duly answered, and he was received and 
seated. 

Before this was done, however, he had introduced him- 
self, and Andy, though in some wrath at being interrupted, 
was interested at once. 

“How kind of you to come to see me,” she said, won- 
dering, when she had assured herself that the visit was not 
for Mrs. Abercrombie. 

Mr. Carruthers drew his chair closer to the table. 


202 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“I had to come,” he said. “I can assure you I did not 
want to, much as I am interested” — he glanced towards the 
music-paper, upon which a fugue-subject was already writ- 
ten — “in you and your studies.” 

“And I in yours,” said Andy eagerly, even as she won- 
dered more and more. “Mrs. Abercrombie has told me a 
little about the Investigation. It must be fascinating 
work.” 

“You think so?” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“I do indeed,” said Andy. 

“Yet you are persistently interrupting it just now,” said 
Mr. Carruthers unexpectedly. 

Andy stared. Then, thinking she had solved the mys- 
tery — 

“Ah, I see,” she said. “I am so sorry — my piano has 
been disturbing you.” 

“Not a bit,” said Mr. Carruthers. “It’s not the piano. 
It’s the thought of you.” 

“The thought of me?” exclaimed Andy, completely mys- 
tified. Then leaning her elbows on the table, she added 
gravely, with a slight frown between her eyebrows — 
“Would you mind telling me plainly, Mr. Carruthers, what 
you are talking about?” 

Mr. Carruthers smiled grimly. 

“You’ll do,” he said to himself. “You may be Beatrice 
and Juliet and Isabella, but you’re a young woman of the 
present day as well.” 

All this time he kept on smiling. 

“Is he a little mad?” thought Andy. 

She said no word, however, only she glanced for a 
moment towards her manuscript, and James noted the 
glance. 

“I must not waste more of your time,” he said; “and 
believe me it is against my will that I have come at all. 
But I could not settle to my own work, before I had had 
a few words with you about my assistant.” 


OTHER PALACE GATES 203 

“Your assistant ?” said Andy surprised. “Do you mean 
Mr. Ascher?” 

“Yes — he has been working with you he tells me,” said 
Mr. Carruthers. 

“He has been very kind,” said Andy. “He knows simply 
everything about composition, and as for his playing ” 

Her whole face lit up at the remembrance. James, 
watching her, was surprised and touched. Also he found 
it difficult to proceed. 

“Is it that I have been taking up too much of his time?” 
asked Andy after a moment. 

Mr. Carruthers smiled grimly again as he thought of 
Ascher as he had last seen him, and as he probably was 
at that moment, sitting at his window — idle and dream- 
smitten. 

“No, not that either,” he said; “if he is any good to 
you. It is a pleasure to him I know to help you. But 
there is something which has been worrying me, and which 
I think you ought to be told before you — before you see 
more of him. . . . Miss Kinross, Ascher, though he is my 
friend — and though there is no one I admire more — is not 
what he seems to you to be. He is — by my fault I must 
tell you — for my sake — living here under false pretences.” 

“Under false pretences?” repeated Andy very low. 

“Not by his own desire, remember,” Mr. Carruthers 
added hastily. “By mine. You know what a help he can 
be to you. He is infinitely more to me. I feel that with 
him beside me there is some chance of my seeing the Inves- 
tigation through — otherwise ” 

Mr. Carruthers spread out his hands expressively. 

“I see,” said Andy slowly. Then suddenly she added — 
“Does Mrs. Abercrombie know?” 

“No,” said Mr. Carruthers, “and I must ask you not to 
say anything of this to Mrs. Abercrombie. I am an old 
friend of hers, as you know, and I will take the responsibil- 
ity. There is no need for her to know.” 

“Then why should I know either?” said Andy. “If he 


204 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

has — done anything unworthy, Mr. Carruthers, I would 
much rather not know it.” 

“He has done nothing unworthy,” exclaimed James, ig- 
noring her question. “It is his country — his government, 
which has been unworthy of him , and has dragged him 
down into depths of shame and misery. Stop — don’t speak 
yet,” he went on, as Andy was about to reply. “I see you 
guess already what I have to tell you. Yes. He is a 
German, belonging by birth to the most hated class, forced 
by fate to share in their uttermost degradation. He came 
to me after having been cast ashore from a U-boat. Yet, 
Miss Kinross, I believe — I know him to be akin to all that 
is best and highest.” 

Andy was silent for a moment, very pale, her eyes very 
large and dark. 

“A dreadful destiny,” she said at last in a half whisper. 

“You know the rest of his story I daresay,” said Mr. 
Carruthers. “Mrs. Abercrombie brought him here. To her 
he is a waif thrown upon her kindness by the storm of the 
war, and so he is — let him remain so. To you he is an artist 
who may be invaluable to you, who by virtue of his art 
belongs to no country or time. Again let him remain so. 
To me — I tell you plainly, Miss Kinross, he has become, 
even in the few days he has been with me, almost a neces- 
sity.” 

“But to his country,” said Andy, still very pale. “What 
is he to his country?” 

“Ah, you see it as he does himself,” said Mr. Carruthers. 
“He was educated in England according to a despicable 
plan devised by a despicable uncle, but at his mother’s 
knee he had learned to be loyal to Germany — to the Ger- 
many of high and brave tradition, the Germany of Goethe, 
which still revered in part at least — c the true, the beau- 
tiful, the good’ — the Germany that is now, alas! only a 
memory. 

“To this he is loyal to the core. He wanted to go 
straight back and fight for it. He came to me — he had been 


OTHER PALACE GATES 205 

a pupil of mine in pre-war days — to ask me for help to do 
it. He would go down of course with the rest of those 
rogues and scoundrels — his countrymen — in the general 
crash, as some frail plant, that has grown up among them, 
might go down with an avalanche of stocks and stones, but 
I persuaded him that, for his country’s sake, he must re- 
gain his mental balance before returning to the arena, and 
I think I may save him yet.” 

“Save him?” said Andy. 

“Yes, the Investigation already interests him,” said Mr. 
Carruthers, “and, by keeping him in close touch with the 
mysteries of the ages, I hope to make him forget the unim- 
portant fact, that, in his present existence, he happens to be 
a German.” 

“I see,” said Andy slowly. 

“Therefore Mrs. Abercrombie must not know,” said Mr. 
Carruthers. “She is a rabid anti-German. She is president 
of a branch of the Empire League. Now do you under- 
stand?” 

He rose as he spoke, and Andy rose too, but still with the 
slight frown between her eyebrows. 

“I understand that ” she said. “What I do not under- 
stand is why you should have told me, Mr. Carruthers.” 

“Ah, that I am unable to tell you,” he replied, and with 
this he so hastily took his leave, that, before Andy had time 
to press her question, he was already half-way downstairs 
again. 

Still frowning, she sat down once more at the table and 
drew her manuscript towards her. She gazed then for d 
long time at her fugue-subject without seeing it. She had 
indeed another subject in her mind which, for the moment, 
wholly occupied it, and instead of writing down her fugue- 
answer she was pondering the answer to her own question. 

Why had Mr. Carruthers told her the truth about Ascher? 
Whatever was the use of it? Why should this wretched 


206 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

disclosure have been made to her merely to make her 
uncomfortable? 

For it had simply made her uncomfortable — no, more 
than that — it had made her feel sick and sorry, as she had 
often felt in a theatre, when some victim of ill-fortune was 
agonising on the stage against odds that were quite hope- 
less. She could never feel the same again, of course, to 
Ascher. She could never be the same again, she feared, 
either. Oh, it was a horrid pity! Mr. Carruthers, the 
bungling old fool, had simply spoiled everything for ever. 

She thought over in detail the two meetings she had had 
with Ascher, and found the strangeness of his manner, the 
night before, accounted for. He had come in, she remem- 
bered, during the reading of the paper, and their comments 
thereon. No wonder he had been strange. The thought 
of the newspaper brought other thoughts with it. To Mr. 
Carruthers she left the responsibility for harbouring an 
enemy alien, but was it loyal to Archie, she wondered, for 
her to go on being friends with Ascher? To Archie even 
now in full career after the enemy. Yet Archie, she knew, 
would be the first to welcome him as an artist — as a help 
to her. . . . And Ascher’s plight, caught thus in the clutch 
of circumstance, would have made Archie sorry for him too 
— Archie the generous-hearted. . . . 

Oh, that old fool Carruthers! If he had only kept quiet. 
If he had only let things be. Then again the question 
recurred. Whatever had made him speak to her? 

She longed to discuss the whole thing with Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. She knew Mr. Carruthers so well. She would 
perhaps have been able to guess his motive. She had 
understood so thoroughly and immediately about her and 
Archie. She would have been able now to understand 
thoroughly and immediately about her and — 

Here the thought-fugue suddenly stopped short, harshly, 
dissonantly, on a chord of dismay. But presently it went 
on again, modulating swiftly through wrath and anger to 
sheer amusement. 


OTHER PALACE GATES 207 

“He thinks I might fall in love with him,” she said to 
herself, and laughed aloud. “He can’t know about Archie 
• — or me either. Poor old man! So he couldn’t rest until 
he had told me and prevented any untoward international 
complications. Oh, I do wish I could tell Aunt Em! How 
she will laugh some day when I tell her!” 

She laughed again herself, dismissing the subject, and 
then she once more summoned the fugue demon, squaring 
her elbows on the music-paper, and selecting the sharpest 
of the pencils. No Demon appeared, however, though 
everything for his reception was just as it had been before, 
the table prepared, the woods whispering outside the win- 
dows, the portrait of Beethoven glooming down from above 
the mantelpiece. 

The Demon came not, but the face of Ascher, pale and 
ravaged as on the night before, seemed to be ever between 
her and the music-paper. 

All the same she persisted, in defiant mood, and, with a 
short break for luncheon, she Worked steadily until four 
o’clock, by which time she had produced a fugue, neatly 
written, mathematically correct, and totally uninteresting. 

Young Ellen bringing in tea coincided with the last 
chord. 

“Is Mrs. Abercrombie in?” said Andy, looking up. 

“No, Miss,” said Ellen, “she’s never come back yet. But 
she said not to expect her till we saw her. She was going 
to Mrs. Forgan’s.” 

Ellen made up the fire, and Andy had tea. When she 
had finished she rose, went over to the fireplace, and 
tearing up her fugue into strips, laid them neatly on a blaz- 
ing log. 

She was watching the ashes of the music-paper writhe 
like flimsy snakes among the flames, when she heard the 
footsteps on the stairs for which she had been listening, 
it now seemed to her, all day — and presently Ascher 
entered. 

As he came forward to where she sat still by the fire- 


208 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

place, she looked up at him with a kind of amazement. She 
had been expecting to see the face that had haunted her 
since morning to the exclusion of the fugue demon. But 
here was no martyr — no tortured victim. No soul in hell 
looked out of the calm eyes, but one serene, uplifted above 
earthly things and neither to be pitied nor patronised. 

“Have you something to show me?” he said, after they 
had exchanged greetings. “If you have, will you let me 
see it quickly, because to-night I have come to play to 
you.” 

Andy sprang up and stood beside him in front of the 
fire. 

“Ah, how good of you!” she exclaimed. “No, I have 
nothing to show you, though I have been working all day, 
except those ashes there.” 

She pointed to the writhing snakes, and for a moment 
they smiled into each other’s eyes. 

“Come then,” he said, and turning away to the piano 
he opened it and sat down, while she went off to a far 
corner. It was a seat where she could lean her arms on 
the low window-sill, and watch the last of the sunset behind 
the trees. 

“If Archie could have been here too, it would have 
been quite perfect,” she said to herself, as Ascher began 
playing. 

Her thoughts for a time were all of Archie, of what he 
was doing at that moment, of when he would come home, 
of their future life together, of the fame he had asked her, 
for his sake, to conquer. And the more she thought of him 
the more confident she became that, when he knew all, he 
would think her friendship with Ascher no disloyalty. “To 
you he is an artist,” Mr. Carruthers had said, “who may 
be invaluable to you, and who by virtue of his art belongs 
to no country or time. Let him remain so.” 

“Vogue alors la galere,” she now responded, abandoning 
herself to the hour and the music. 


OTHER PALACE GATES 


209 

Thinking it over in cold blood afterwards, Ascher knew 
that he had excelled himself that night. The very souls of the 
gods had seemed to reinforce his, to inspire, to direct his. 

The hour had extended itself to two hours. The band 
of sunset-glow behind the tree-tops had narrowed to a mere 
pale strip, and Andy, whether in the body or out of the 
body she could not tell, was listening, enthralled, to one 
nocturne after another. She was afloat afar on a fairy sea 
in a glamour of moonlight and slow-swinging water, where 
strange echoes sounded from time to time of mortal griefs 
and loves and longings. . . . 

When, all at once, there came an interruption. 

It was what Mr. Carruthers would have called a tangible 
one. 

It was nothing less than the sudden entrance of Young 
Ellen carrying a lighted lamp in one hand, a note in the 
other, and a small Japanese tray, which she held in her 
teeth until she had deposited the lamp on the table, after 
which, taking the tray in her lamp hand, she placed the 
note upon it and presented it. 

“From Mrs. Abercrombie, Miss,” she said. “Geordie 
Forgan from Cock-ma-lone has brought it, and is waitin’ 
to see if there is a answer.” 

Andy tore open the note. 

“Dear Andy,” it ran, “get me, like a dear, the things 
undermentioned.” Here followed a list of medicines, eat- 
ables and garments. “And bring or send them to me at 
once. Mrs. Forgan here is very ill, and as all the people 
about are down with influenza, except blithering idiots, I 
am staying all night. — Yours in haste, E. A. 

“P.S . — Bring the formamint lozenges, and before you 
come in here, put one in your mouth.” 

“Tell Geordie to wait,” said Andy. 

And handing the note to Ascher, who had risen and was 
closing the piano — 

“Please read it,” she said, and then hastened away to 
obey her order. 


210 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


In Mrs. Abercrombie’s room she collected the medicines 
and a hot-water bag. Then she ran downstairs. 

Geordie, very breathless, was standing in the dusk of 
the porch. He had refused to come in because, he said, 
he did not want to waste time sitting down. His real 
reason was, however, that though he was twelve, and the 
head of the family for the moment, he had been weeping 
sore all the way there. 

Young Ellen was ready with a basket. The bottles were 
packed into it wrapped in a wad of cotton-wool. 

“Now,” said Andy, handing it over, “run, Geordie, for all 
you are worth, and say I am bringing the other things.” 

She bounded up to her own room then, and presently 
returned with hat and coat on, and in a few minutes was 
ready to set out, carrying another basket and a bundle of 
goodly size. 

“It’s terrible to see ye awa’ oot like this into the pitmirk, 
Miss,” said Ellen, perturbed. “If my auntie had been in 
I would ha’ gane wi’ ye mysel’, but Mr. Carruthers’s supper 
is to get.” 

“Oh, I’m all right,” said Andy cheerfully. “It’s not pit- 
mirk at all. It will be quite light when the moon gets 
through the clouds.” 

“A’ the same it’s no’ nice,” said Ellen, by no means 
convinced. “An’ a’ these parcels,” she added, with the ef- 
fect of wringing her hands. 

“Parcels!” cried Andy. “Those are thistle-down to what 
I have carried hundreds of times.” 

She was off into the middle of the road before Ellen had 
time for another word. 

She was not destined to go alone after all, however. 
Hardly had she started than Ascher came up with her. 

“Will you let me come too?” he said. “The Forgans are 
friends of mine.” 

And, in spite of her protests, taking the bundles from 
her, he told her of his journey with the Forgans. 


OTHER PALACE GATES 2 ill 

“Poor Mrs. Forgan,” he added, “she was so happy that 
day.” 

They walked on together through a strange black and 
white world. The moon, though as yet it was out of their 
sight, had emerged again somewhere behind the trees. Their 
footsteps were almost noiseless in the mud. And the spell 
of the silent woods seemed to be upon them as they went. 

Andy was the first to speak. 

“Geordie ought to be far on his way by now,” she said. 
“I only hope he won’t have smashed anything in his hurry 
and excitement.” 

“Mrs. Abercrombie will be a godsend to them,” said 
Ascher. “I know how splendid she is in trouble.” 

“And I too,” said Andy. 

Then again there was a pause, but Andy’s thoughts had 
wandered from her destination to her companion. She was 
remembering what Mrs. Abercrombie had told her of the 
first coming of Ascher to her house. A horror of what 
he must have seen and suffered had begun to turn her slowly 
cold, and made her snatch at the first subject she could 
think of with which to break the heavy silence. 

“You must play me the nocturnes again,” she said. “I 
think some of them are the most beautiful things I know. 
Chopin must have been specially inspired when he wrote 
them.” 

“He was,” said Ascher. “You remember Georges Sand 
was with him.” 

“Ah — that was a strange story,” said Andy after a mo- 
ment. 

“Yes, I suppose it was,” said Ascher. “Though it is 
sad, is it not, that such spirit-friendships should be thought 
strange?” 

“Yes,” Andy agreed, “it is sad. But spirits — embodied 
spirits — are apt to be thought strange, when they act as 
though they were disembodied.” 

“That is true,” he said gravely. 

But then, for the first time, quite suddenly and unex- 


212 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

pectedly, they laughed together, and the flash of humour 
brought them more understanding of each other than any- 
thing had yet done. All in a moment, however, reaction 
followed. 

“How hateful of us to laugh,” said Andy. “With that 
poor woman so ill — dying perhaps.” 

“Ah, but,” said Ascher, “one has to laugh sometimes 
even in the midst ” 

“Of sadness, yes, I know,” said Andy. 

They laughed no more, however, and hardly spoke again, 
and only one incident occurred to break the monotony of 
the next two miles. Suddenly, as they were approaching 
a part of the road upon which the moonlight lay very bright, 
a man came quite suddenly into it, out of the wood. He 
had begun to cross the road, when he stood hesitating for 
a moment half-way, as though uncertain whether to advance 
or to go back. Then, making up his mind, he crossed 
quickly to the other side, clambered over the low wall 
there, and disappeared again into the wood. 

“Strange,” said Ascher. “I could have sworn that that 
was Bob Lindsay.” 

“And was it not?” said Andy. 

“It couldn’t have been,” said Ascher. “Mrs. Binnie told 
me to-day that he had left last night — for France.” 

“Then of course it couldn’t have been he — could it?” 
said Andy absently, for she was thinking of other things 
much more interesting to her than Bob Lindsay. 

She had again become possessed with uneasy wonder, 
almost horror, at the strange situation in which she found 
herself, walking with Ascher calmly along this quiet road, 
while her lover was fighting to the death with his fellow- 
countrymen. 

By all the ordinary rules of reasoning, surely, she was 
being guilty of disloyalty, yet something outside and be- 
yond reason was convincing her that she was being nothing 
of the sort. The testimony of Mr. Carruthers made her 
certain that Ascher, whatever else he might be, was one 


OTHER PALACE GATES 213 

who could be relied upon to take no mean advantage. He 
who was so loyal in spite of everything to his own country 
would not be disloyal to the friend, who for the moment 
was sheltering him. But what perplexed her was that, 
even without the guarantee of Mr. Carruthers, in whom 
Mrs. Abercrombie had evidently implicit faith, she now 
found herself trusting the man walking quietly beside her, 
as she would have trusted one she had known all her life. 
Yet she had met and talked with him only three times. 

Thinking over this, she found her attitude of mind 
towards him more and more difficult to understand. 

“It must be the music,” she concluded, with something 
like misgiving. “Has it bewitched me? Am I deceiving 
myself? Is Mr. Carruthers deceiving himself?” 

Was the Investigator’s interest in his work making him 
endow this man, who was being so useful to him, with 
imaginary qualities? Was Ascher really here for some hid- 
den end? 

The thought scared her badly for a moment. But on 
the heels of it came the remembrance of Ascher’s face, as 
she had seen it on the night before. No — it was impos- 
sible. No sneak could look like that. It had been the 
face of a man in the depths of sorrow — despair perhaps, 
but not of one who was underhand. 

She glanced at him again now, walking on, looking 
straight before him. They were in the full moonlight 
again just then. She could see his profile against the dark 
background of the trees, pale and clear-cut as a cameo. 
Again she was struck by his likeness to the portrait of the 
young war-poet resting gloriously in his grave amid the 
southern seas. . . . And, for the first time, the full tragedy 
of Ascher’s fate was revealed to her. 

“How he must envy even our rich dead,” she said to 
herself. “He has nothing even to die for.” 

And with this thought came another and final one. No 
more misery, if she could help it, would be heaped upon 1 
him by her. The letter she had half made up her mind 


214 THE man with the lamp 

to write to Archie, in which she would tell him everything 
and ask what he would have her do, and which would 
probably worry him to death, would never be written. 
Afterwards would be time enough to tell him. Afterwards, 
when all was over . . . when she could explain every- 
thing, with his arms round her, with his eyes looking into 
hers. . . . 

At a point further on, where a road diverged, a panting 
little figure met them. 

“Geordie!” exclaimed Andy. 

“Ay, it’s me,” he said. “The leddy sent me back to 
see that ye didna miss the turnin’. And,” he added with 
an extra sigh, “I am to cairry yer bundles for ye.” 

“No, no,” said Ascher. “You show us the road. That 
will be enough for you. I am carrying the bundles.” 

Nothing loth, for, though he would have died rather than 
admit it, Geordie was played out, he went on ahead down 
a rough cart-track, between pale stubble-fields. 

“How is your mother?” inquired Andy, as they trudged 
along after him. 

“Very bad,” said Geordie brokenly. “Mistress Macallis- 
ter said she couldna live till mornin’, but the leddy says 
she’ll be blowed if she doesna.” 

“Good for Aunt Em!” said Andy. 

The house, a solitary two-storied abode, which had once 
been a farm-house, was not far distant, and presently, turn- 
ing another corner, they found themselves at the door of it. 
Not far off two women were conversing in low tones, but 
very volubly. 

“It’s a fell-like thing,” Andy heard one say, who, she 
was sure, must be Mistress Macallister, “that strangers can 
pit neebours to the door this way. As sure as death I 
never saw anything like it.” 

Some indication of the presence of more strangers, how- 
ever, having apparently been given her, she stopped abrupt- 
ly, and, standing with arms akimbo, joined her friend in a 
silent stare of disapproval. 


CHAPTER XI 


IN WHICH SOME ACCOUNT IS GIVEN OF ANOTHER NOCTURNE, 
AND MRS. BINNIE FINDS IT NECESSARY TO INTERVIEW 
THE CHIEF SPECIAL CONSTABLE 

For what seemed a long minute Andy and Ascher had to 
stand on the doorstep, exposed to the animosity of Mistress 
Macallister and her companion. The door was locked, 
and, when Geordie knocked, no one at first took any notice. 
Presently, however, a piping voice was heard within appar- 
ently admonishing Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“Yes, yes, Mary,” they heard her answer in the distance. 

Then just within the door — “Who’s there?” she de- 
manded. 

“It’s me, Aunt Em,” said Andy. 

“And Ascher,” he added. 

Immediately the door flew open. 

“Bricks both!” said Mrs. Abercrombie enthusiastically, 
yet in subdued tones. “I never was more glad to see any- 
body. I had to turn out Mrs. Macallister, who was quite 
impossible, and that other fool went with her.” 

They were standing between the doors in the little en- 
trance-passage. 

“Go in, Geordie,” she said to the boy, who was listening 
open-mouthed. “Go in and help Mary.” 

When he obeyed she continued in a low voice — 

“The mother is very ill and the doctor can’t get back 
to-night, but he told me all that can be done, and it will 
take me all my time to do it. I must leave the rest to you 
two. You, Andy, must remain and help with the children. 
Some of them I am sure are in for it. And you,” she 

215 


216 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

added, turning to Ascher, “I want to go straight back and 
tell Mrs. Binnie she’s wanted.” 

“All right, Mrs. Abercrombie,” said Ascher at once. 

“I’d rather have you here of course,” Mrs. Abercrombie 
continued, as Andy went into the house to take up her 
appointed duties. “You are so splendid with children, 
and I question whether Andy is, poor dear.” 

“I’ll come back,” said Ascher eagerly. “I’ll be as quick 
as I can and come back.” 

“Good man!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Off you go 
then, and tell Mrs. Binnie that Mrs. Forgan woke up cry- 
ing for her after Geordie left, saying she had something she 
must tell her. It may be only delirium of course, but it 
raises her temperature, and I don’t want her to do it often, 
for when she begins it I can’t quiet her.” 

“I’ll tell Mrs. Binnie,” said Ascher, setting off again. 

The aggrieved Mistress Macallister and her friend had 
taken their departure, and, where they had stood glaring, 
there was now only a patch of moonlight. They had with- 
drawn to their own cottages presumably, or perhaps to the 
rescue of other invalids more appreciative of their assist- 
ance, or less under the power of strangers. . . . Ascher 
therefore went on his way uncriticised and soon reached the 
high-road, already for him a place of memories, and strange- 
ly full of points of interest. 

Here Andy, skirting a muddy pool, had swerved inad- 
vertently against his arm for a moment. Here she had 
spoken. Here she had been silent. Here they had laughed 
together. Here they had quarrelled over the carrying of 
the bundles. Here they had met first. So measuring the 
miles by moments, he came at last back to the Dove- 
cote. 

The outer door was ajar, and, hardly waiting for the 
answer to his knock in his hurry, he entered the kitchen 
and found Young Ellen alone there. 

“No, she’s no’ back yet, sir,” she said in answer to his 
question. “But she canna be long noo. It’s the day she 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 


217 

works at Broadlees an’ auld Lindsay whiles keeps her 
long past her time he’s paid for, clashin’ an’ claverin’ to 
her.” 

“By the way,” began Ascher, and it was on the tip of 
his tongue to tell Young Ellen of the man, so like Bob 
Lindsay, that he had seen on the road an hour before. 
But Ellen, who had begun toasting a slice of bread, inter- 
rupted him. 

“I’m glad ye’ve come, sir,” she said, “because o’ Mr. 
Carruthers’s supper. It should ha’ been up lang syne, but 
ye see I was waitin’ on my auntie. For, since the mornin’ 
I found you in Mr. Carruthers’s bed, I never gang into 
the ither end by mysel’ if I can help it.” 

Ascher laughed. 

“Get it ready then,” he said. “Let me toast the bread 
while you get on with the other things, for I am in a hurry. 
I am going back to Mrs. Forgan’s to help at least until 
your aunt comes.” 

“Bless me!” cried Young Ellen, handing over the toast- 
ing-fork. “Are they wantin’ my auntie there next?” 

“Mrs. Forgan wants her,” said Ascher. 

“Mirny?” exclaimed Ellen, “an’ what for does she want 
her?” 

“She is half-delirious,” said Ascher, “and it may be noth- 
ing of importance, but she says she has something that she 
must tell Mrs. Binnie.” 

Young Ellen stared for a moment. Then illumination 
came to her. 

“I ken what it’ll be, 0 ’ she said. “Mirny was always 
jealouser-minded than she should ha’ been, puir thing, an’ 
noo she’s thinkin’ she is to dee an’ wants me — I mean my 
auntie — to ken she’s sorry for’t.” 

Ascher turned the toast on his fork. 

“That will be it,” he said. “Now do be quick, won’t 
you? I promised I would be as quick as I could.” 

As he spoke Ellen turned sharply towards the door. 


2i8 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“There she is noo,” she said. Then after a moment — 
“Did ye no’ hear footsteps, sir?” 

“I did hear something,” said Ascher. 

They both listened intently, going on the while with 
their occupations, and both heard sounds as though some 
one were moving about very softly, just outside. 

“Is that you, Auntie?” called Ellen after a moment. 

But there was no answer. 

“It canna have been her,” said Ellen. “It must ha* 
been the wind.” 

Yet there was no wind, as Ascher happened to notice. 

“Why don’t you keep a dog?” he said. “But I suppose 
you think that having the special constable almost op- 
posite to you is sufficient.” 

Ellen glanced coyly at him, then seeing he knew nothing 
of the Affair — 

“Ay, that must be it, sir,” she said, smiling to herself. 

“Is the supper nearly ready?” said Ascher then, seeing 
with impatience that she was lapsing into meditativeness. 

“I’ll no’ be five minutes, sir,” she answered, jumping up, 
and hastening into the scullery for her frying-pan in her 
most business-like manner. 

Even as she bustled, however, she kept on talking, inter- 
jecting remarks between the making of coffee and the 
frying of cod-steaks. 

“Ye see,” she said, reverting to the subject of Mirny, 
“things like that worries ye awful when ye’re lyin’ at the 
pint o’ death.” 

“Are you sure?” said Ascher, looking to see if his slice 
was toasted enough. 

“Certain,” said Young Ellen, deftly turning over her 
steaks. “It’s weel kent that the whole o’ yer past life ap- 
pears before ye in the last moments.” 

“Does it?” said Ascher, smiling grimly — and then there 
was silence between them, till Ellen had completed her 
dainty supper tray and handed it over to her assistant. 

He, in his turn, lost no time in handing it over to Mr. 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 219 

Carruthers, whom he found reading hard, in the absence, 
he said, of the Higher Intelligence. 

“I may as well make use of this enforced pause in the 
Investigation to increase my present knowledge of the sub- 
ject, ” he said. “Who knows where some point of contact 
may not occur which may help to bridge the gulf between 
it and the past?” 

“Then the Investigation proper ” began Ascher. 

“Is at a complete stand-still for the time,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers quietly. 

“But how do you account for this, sir?” said Ascher 
much concerned. “It was going on so splendidly. Why 
is it at a stand-still?” 

“Ah — that I cannot tell you,” replied Mr. Carruthers, 
just as he had replied to Andy in the morning. 

He was quite pleased, however, that Ascher should again 
leave him. 

“You can do nothing for me to-night,” he said. “And 
you may be able to do much for Mrs. Abercrombie.” 

Then, as Ascher still looked concerned — 

“Don’t worry about the Investigation,” he added reas- 
suringly. “It will go on again all right soon — quite soon, 
my dear Ascher — I am convinced of that.” 

Little Mary Forgan, aged ten and a half, was crying 
silently but very bitterly when Andy found her. 

She was crying, she said, because Dash was so heavy 
and would not sleep anywhere but on her knees. The lady 
had told her to keep him quiet, because, if he went on mak- 
ing the noise he was making, his mother would get worse 
and perhaps never get better. 

“Yes, I did say that,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, who had 
followed Andy, “to my shame I said it — for I was at my 
wits’ end at the moment. But now, Mary, you can go to 
bed, and this lady will take Dash.” 

Dash accordingly was transferred — still asleep — from 
Mary’s small hard knee to Andy’s. 


220 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Where he should be much more comfortable/’ Mrs. 
Abercrombie remarked, when Mary had gone away to bed, 
and she came back to give her final orders. 

“We may thank our stars,” she said to Andy as she 
poked up the fire with as little noise as possible, “that 
the baby at least is off our hands, for what we should have 
done with him I know not. Fortunately the one sensible 
woman I know of in this neighbourhood just now, who is 
not down with influenza, is a nursing mother with only one 
infant. She says she has enough for triplets and welcomed 
him with open arms, so that, if he is not a little food-hog, 
he should be satisfied ; but his absence makes complications 
here — and in short, you needn’t depend upon me to do a 
single thing for you, Andy. To save Mrs. Forgan alive will 
be as much as I can manage — if I can manage that, which 
I very much doubt.” 

With these words, to Andy’s dismay, her commander-in- 
chief left her, and, crossing the room, opened a door there 
and disappeared, leaving her in the half-dark in more 
senses than one, to cope with, she knew not how many, little 
Forgans. 

And this too with a very fat weighty one on her knees, 
who seemed to be very hot with a heavy cold, and whom 
she dared not disturb. Yet the first thing absolutely neces- 
sary seemed to be to remove this hindrance to activity. 

A box-bed in the corner opposite to her offered relief. 
There she resolved she would dispose Dash, and so be free 
to attend to the other members of the family. She rose, 
therefore, very slowly and steadily, bracing her arms to 
sustain Dash’s weight, and took one step forward, then 
another and another. In six steps she had reached the bed. 
A moment more and she would have had Dash laid down 
upon it, when, to her horror, she perceived that his eyes 
were open, and that he was regarding her with strong dis- 
favour. He had been too surprised up till then to make a 
sound, but his mouth was open and even as she looked he 
gave vent to a preliminary whimper. 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 


221 


“No, no, dear,” she said hastily. But it was all no use. 
In another moment there was a heart-rending, ear-splitting 
roar of wrath, at the sound of which, it seemed to her, the 
room became alive with children. 

One, whom till now she had not seen, started up at the 
back of the bed. Geordie appeared at a side-door, and 
another child — not Mary — on the ladder-like stairs that led 
apparently to a room above. Another unseen began to cry 
in the distance. 

“I’ve done it thoroughly anyhow,” said Andy grimly, as 
she hastily resumed the seat she had left, expecting every 
moment to be pounced upon by Mrs. Abercrombie. 

To her surprise, however, Mrs. Abercrombie did not 
appear, and, to her astonishment, Dash instantly stopped 
roaring. 

“Ay, that’s what he wants ye see,” said a small voice 
from the box-bed, accompanied by a sound as of its owner 
snuggling down again. “He aye kens what he wants.” 

“And has to get it too, I suppose,” said Andy ruefully. 

Clearly the only thing to be done was to concentrate 
upon Dash, and leave all the other Forgans to Geordie, 
who, tired as he was, seemed unable to rest, and was wan- 
dering about like an unquiet spirit. From time to time he 
would listen at his mother’s door, then he would mend the 
fire and set the flames leaping. At these times a flare of 
light would illuminate the room, showing up its many little 
gleams of gaudiness. Andy had never seen Mirny, but she 
took note appreciatively of what, in another place, she 
would have called her scheme of colour. Her eyes, roving 
round, dwelt with pleasure on the many-hued crockery on 
the dresser-shelves, on the gaily-striped cotton curtains of 
the window and the bed, on the black-haired red-cheeked 
china ornaments above the fireplace, on the painted clock, 
the gorgeous almanacs. . . . Finally they rested on the 
rakish bright green feather in the jaunty hat which hung 
on a hook on the bedroom door. 

This last item fascinated her, hanging as though it had 


222 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

been flung there, while its owner, whose faint voice she 
could hear uplifted from time to time, was lying just 
through the door from it at grips perhaps with death. It 
seemed typical of all that she had cast aside when she lay 
down — all the dauntless courage — all the joy in life. . . . 
A large photograph of the absent Dash — in colour, of course 
— seemed to dominate the room from its place over the fire, 
and his strong handsome face, when the light fell upon it, 
seemed to lend poignancy to everything. 

Had they seen the last of each other, these two — who 
had lived so long and happily together? Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie’s words in the wood occurred to her. This place also 
was aware, as the shrine in the wood had been. Not, how- 
ever, of the memories of centuries, of unseen dawns, and 
unheard tempests. Here were only the memories of a few 
short years. But what memories they were! 

Here love had been, and pain and passion, grief and 
joy. Here souls had been born into the world. Here 
had been partings. Had they perhaps — Dash and Mirny — 
sat by the fire together on their last night? What had it 
not seen — that fireplace? The very cracks in the bricks 
of it seemed to be remembering. . . . Geordie was remem- 
bering too, sitting on the fender, a disconsolate little bowed 
figure, with glittering tears rolling down his cheeks, when he 
thought no one could see them. 

Andy wondered afterwards what they would have done 
without Geordie. She herself slept at times. She could not 
help it. But Geordie never seemed to close an eye. Every 
time she woke he was doing something. Now he was boil- 
ing the kettle for Mrs. Abercrombie, now taking a drink 
of water to one of the company upstairs, now asking her if 
she was needing anything, now helping her to change Dash 
from one arm to the other. 

After he had done this last for the third time, Andy 
tried desperately not to sleep again. Geordie’s pale face 
as he sat watching the kettle seemed an intolerable re- 
proach. 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 


223 

“I will not sleep, 1 ” she said to herself. “I will not desert 
him in his agony.” 

By a supreme effort she did keep awake for half an 
hour, assisted thereto by the unconscious Dash, who was 
showing some signs of waking, but Ascher, returning later } 
found her again asleep. Seeing her thus with the child 
in her arms in the flickering firelight was a new revelation 
to him. She seemed like a tired Madonna and he wor- 
shipped accordingly, not being aware that five minutes be- 
fore she had fallen asleep, being cross, she had all but 
shaken her slumbering infant for being so heavy and self- 
willed and snuffly. 

There was not much time for devotions, however, for 
almost immediately the child that was in the box-bed woke 
up. It was the Fourth, called Phemie, and she began to 
cry suddenly, saying she was frightened, and calling to her 
mother to come. 

By the time Geordie had induced her to go with him 
upstairs to Mary’s bed, Andy 'was awake. 

“ What’s the matter now?” she said, when she saw Ascher. 

As she spoke, the door of Mrs. Forgan’s room opened, 
and Mrs. Abercrombie appeared upon the threshold. She 
was a strange-looking figure, in a shortish petticoat, with 
a large shawl tied round her shoulders and a small one 
round her head. She was paler than usual, and looked old 
and haggard. 

“I’ve had an awful time,” she said in a low voice. “But 
she’s asleep now and cooler — decidedly cooler. For God’s 
sake get tea, somebody.” 

Then once more she disappeared. 

“You get the tea,” said Ascher, and before Andy knew 
it Dash was lifted and laid across his shoulder. More than 
this, to her surprise, before she had had time to collect 
cups and saucers and make the tea he was deposited on the 
bed. 

“How did you do it?” she said amazed. 


224 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Oh, I’ve always been able to manage children,” he said. 
“It seems to come natural to me.” 

Again they smiled for a moment into each other’s eyes, 
standing in the firelight together, as in Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
sitting-room. Andy, remembering that other moment, how- 
ever, perceived that this was very different. Before, he had 
smiled over the destruction of her fugue, over his under- 
standing of her mood at the moment, over the futility of her 
day’s work. Now, here on the hearthstone of Dash and 
Mirny, it seemed to her that they were smiling over the 
destruction of his hopes of human happiness. 

Next moment, however, a revulsion of feeling came. 

“Why should he not be happy yet?” she said to herself. 
“There is some German girl probably whom he loves, and 
who loves him well enough to weather the storm with 
him.” 

The smile died in her eyes at the thought, and she 
turned away from him to finish her tea-making. And at this 
the light died in his eyes too. 

“Nevertheless,” he said cheerfully, “the last time I 
tackled this chap he did roar!” 

“I am glad of that,” said Andy. “It prevents me feeling 
too humiliated.” 

“Is that tea ready yet?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, opening 
the door again. “No — I can’t come out. Just a cup in my 
hand. Thank you.” 

Bearing her cup with her she returned to her post, and 
after that nothing more happened for a long time. 

It seemed to Andy that a sense of betterness, of more 
ease and less tension seemed to have come into the house 
with Ascher. Dash slept like a log, tucked up over the 
ears, and presently Geordie was induced to lie down beside 
him. She herself took Geordie’s place, attending upon 
the opening of the door and the demands of Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, while Ascher went the round upstairs administer- 
ing drinks and feeling pulses and temperatures. 

“Two of them have got it I think,” he reported; “neither 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 225 

of them badly so far as I can judge. But they’re jolly hot 
and uncomfortable, poor little beggars. I’d better stay 
upstairs and watch them.” 

He stayed up accordingly, and all was peace. Even the 
faint complaining voice from the sick-room had not sounded 
for some time and Andy once more was making desperate 
efforts to keep awake, when, just before dawn, she was 
suddenly and violently roused by a long thin scream as of 
wild terror from upstairs. 

She started to her feet, but at the same moment Geordie 
started up in bed. 

“It’s Phemie again,” he said. “She’s frightened again — 
I’d better ” And he began getting up. 

“No, no,” said Andy, helping him back. “Mr. Ascher is 
there. He will manage her.” 

He seemed to be managing her indeed, for no more cries 
were heard, only a faint sobbing, with Ascher ’s voice ever 
and anon between. 

“Ay — he’s managed,” said Geordie, with a sigh of relief, 
as he lay comfortably down again. “I never thocht he 
would though, for when she’s like that she’s awful whiles. 
I’ve seen her cairry on for hours.” 

Andy shuddered. 

“Oh, surely not,” she said, “poor little thing. Why does 
she do it? What frightens her?” 

“It’s my feyther’s fault,” said Geordie. “He forgot ae 
nicht he was here that she was in the bed there when he 
was sittin’ speakin’ to mither at the fire, an’ he was tellin’ 
aboot the Belgian bairns that he had seen wi’ their haunds 
cut aff by the German soldiers — an’ the wee ” 

“Yes — yes — I know,” said Andy hastily. “I have heard. 
But don’t think any more about it now, and go to sleep, 
or you’ll never be ready to help us to-morrow morning.” 

She tucked him in, and, almost before she had finished 
doing so, he was again sound asleep. 

She was bending over him to adjust the quilt over Dash, 
who had slumbered through the whole disturbance, when 


226 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

she was again startled by a sound of footsteps behind her, 
and, turning sharply, she found Ascher. 

She had only time to recognise him in the dimness before 
he spoke urgently — breathlessly — 

“Did you hear that child upstairs?” he whispered. “She 
awoke in terror. I could hardly quiet her — some one — a 
German soldier — was cutting off her hands with a sword 
she said — doing — oh, horrible things. ... I should not 
have left her — but I had to come and ask . . . Miss Kin- 
ross — is it possible that she has heard this — that there have 
been such things?” 

His face was terrible, and Andy had a bad moment. But 
the growing hatred and indignation of many months rose up 
and spoke bitterly — passionately — in spite of her. 

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Mr. Ascher. It has been as she 
says . . . and more shame to them . . . the low brutes 
. . . the beastly cowards . . . the hateful fiends . . . 
more shame to them.” 

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I only wanted to know. 
I — I — had hoped,” he added, turning away, “that she had 
been only dreaming.” 

“Well so she was most likely,” retorted Andy still at white 
heat. “For you see, Mr. Ascher, they have poisoned even 
the children’s dreams.” 

He went away then without another word, and, till the 
grey morning, Andy saw no more of him. 

Then, however, after Mrs. Binnie arrived, he came down 
again, passed in silence through the kitchen, and went 
out. 


Mr. Carruthers found him by his bed when he awoke. 

“Hullo, Ascher!” he said cheerfully. Then receiving no 
reply — “What has happened?” he said alarmed; for Ascher’s 
face was set and dreadful. 

“What has happened, sir, is that I am banned for ever 
from the love of little children,” he said. “I am of the 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 


227 

nation of brutes and cowards and fiends who have poisoned 
the children’s dreams.” 

He told him then about the Fourth, called Phemie, of 
her terrible awaking, her frightful story. 

‘‘I shall never get over it, sir,” said Ascher, “and the way 
in which that little thing clung to me begging me not to let 
the Germans come to her. . . . Even if I had known of it 
before. . . . But I had not known. . . .” 

“And, if you had,” said Mr. Carruthers, “what earthly 
difference could it have made, Ascher? to these poor little 
children I mean. The mischief was done long before you 
knew of it. You must harden your heart, my dear Ascher. 
You must imitate the philosophy of hundreds and thousands 
of eminently respectable people, who do not consider them- 
selves debarred from the love of children in the least by 
what they permit to be done, year in year out, to thousands 
of poor little brats in the slums of our great cities. 

“Of course, I grant you this Belgian business is an 
abominable thing — a blatant thing — a fearful thing. But if 
you are to be an Investigator, Ascher, you must keep con- 
trol over those nerves of yours — or rather rise out of them 
— be superior to them. Work like ours, if it is to be car- 
ried on at all, must often be so at the expense of sym- 
pathy.” 

“I know — I know, sir,” said Ascher bitterly, turning 
away. “I am afraid I am a poor help to you — I would be 
better back in my own place. There at least I would not be 
a skulking fraud and an outsider.” 

“Ascher,” said Mr. Carruthers, “don’t make this harder 
for me than it is. Your presence here, I tell you, is — or 
will be when you have pulled yourself together — invaluable 
to me. Without you I shall never carry the Investigation 
through as I might if you were with me, and I am des- 
perately anxious to keep you. Wait — even if it is only a 
few days. Think things over quietly. Commune as the 
Psalmist says, and he was a wise man, with your own soul. 


228 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

And then if you still wish it, I shall let you go. The 
money for your journey is lying there ready for you.” 

By this time Mrs. Abercrombie and Andy were having 
breakfast together, at the kitchen fire in Cock-ma-lone, Mrs. 
Abercrombie, still in shawls, presiding. 

“Yes, and help me largely, my dear,” she said. “Anxiety 
always leaves me ravenous.” 

“It has left you then?” said Andy. “Mrs. Forgan is 
really better?” 

“My dear — so much so,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “that 
I begin to think, with Mrs. Binnie, that that doctor is an 
alarmist. She is annoyed, I can see, though she is too 
polite to say so, at being brought here. No wonder either, 
for Mrs. Forgan, now that the fear of death is removed 
from her, cannot be induced to tell her what she was asked 
to come to hear about.” 

“The whole thing was an illusion perhaps,” said Andy. 

“No, I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “She 
says she had meant to tell when she thought she was going 
to die, but now that she is going to live she cannot.” 

“But how very irritating for Mrs. Binnie,” said Andy, 
“to have walked three miles for nothing after her own day’s 
work.” 

“She shall drive home with the doctor,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “He said he would try to be here by eight 
o’clock, when he expected to find his patient dead. He had, 
he said, hundreds of patients to see at Wood End — which 
was surely an exaggeration — and would give me a lift.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie, when she had reported to Andy at 
the breakfast-table that Mrs. Binnie was annoyed, was very 
much within the truth. Although hardly a ripple appeared 
upon the surface of her Napoleonic calm, Mrs. Binnie 
was furious. Here was she, having lost a whole night’s 
sleep and walked three long miles for nothing. And Mirny 
getting better too! If she had been dying it would have 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 229 

been less riling. But while she — Mrs. Binnie — had been sit- 
ting beside her, she had actually said she was hungry and 
asked for breakfast. Was there ever such a thing heard 
of? And yet nothing Mrs. Binnie could do would make 
her say why she had sent for her, though she gave her an- 
other chance even when the doctor’s motor was waiting 
and the doctor had gone into the other room with Mrs. 
Abercrombie, leaving her to follow. 

“Will ye no’ speak noo, Mirny, and ease yer mind?” she 
had said, hoping to the last to get an answer, for her 
curiosity was now so thoroughly aroused that it was acting 
as a sedative to her anger. 

“No, it’s no’ possible,” said Mirny stubbornly, though 
she lay pale and limp and powerless-looking. 

“A’ thing’s possible if ye pit yer mind tae ’t,” said Old 
Ellen persuasively. 

But Mirny was not Young Ellen. 

“No’ this,” was the answer. 

She had to go off then for the doctor was in a hurry. 
But her thoughts, as she sat majestically and rather sul- 
lenly in the motor, remained with Mirny and kept turning 
her secret round and round like some casket that will not 
open. 

They had to stop half-way that the doctor might see 
a patient, and, during the time she was left sitting, a new 
idea came to her, suggested by something she herself had 
experienced, something Young Ellen had told her the night 
before. This, by the time they had reached Wood End, 
had sprouted into a definite plan of action, a plan which 
had the advantage, as she put it to herself, of killing two 
birds with one stone. As soon, therefore, as the doctor’s 
car had left her on her own doorstep, and moved on down 
the village street, she proceeded to put it into execution. 

Mr. Dunwiddie, making his morning arrangements in 
preparation for the day’s activities, presently beheld her, 
dressed in her best blacks and the bonnet she wore on 
Sundays, entering his shop door. 


230 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

He hastened forward to the counter. 

“But it’s no’ groceries I’m needin’, Peter — it’s advice,” 
she said by way of preliminary. “To tell ye the plain 
truth it’s the Chief Special Constable I’m needin’.” 

The Sunday bonnet gave emphasis to her words, and her 
hearer was duly impressed, though in reality the words 
“plain truth” were what she herself would have called jist 
a mainner o’ speakin’. The plain truth really was that 
Old Ellen was anxious — now that Bob was really gone — 
to get on with the wedding, and pride preventing her dis- 
cussing it over the counter, or taking the initiative in other 
ways, she had seized the opportunity presented to her of 
talking with her future nephew-in-law alone and face to 
face in the privacy of his back premises. 

As Peter heard what she said he stopped leaning on 
the counter, smiling and rubbing his hands, and stood up 
like a poker. 

“Ah — is that so?” he said. “Then be so good as to step 
in-bye, Mrs. Binnie.” 

And directing her with a wave of his hand to pass 
round the end of the counter, he flung open a door at the 
back of it and motioned to her to enter. 

The sudden change from the obsequious shopkeeping 
manner to the stern official one was quite startling. Never- 
theless, Mrs. Binnie decided, now she had begun the thing 
she must go through with it. Passing into the back- 
parlour, therefore, which smelt amongst other things of 
cheese and furniture polish, she took the chair indicated, 
and immediately set about delivering herself of her busi- 
ness. 

“Ye’ll think it not worth while botherin’ about maybe,” 
she said, “but somebody’s wanderin’ aboot efter dark scarin’ 
folk, Peter.” 

“Scarin’ folk?” said Mr. Dunwiddie, who had taken out 
a note-book and was writing in it. 

“Ay,” said Old Ellen. “I’m no’ easy scared mysel’ but 
whaever it is scared me, slinkin’ alongside me in the wood, 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 


231 

whaur they couldna be seen, an’ when I stoppit to listen — 
stoppin’ theirsels an’ breathin’ ?” 

“Breathin’?” said Peter. 

“Ay — breathin’ hard,” said Old Ellen. 

“Breathin’ hard were they?” said Peter. “An’ when was 
this ye heard them?” 

“Last nicht — efter dark,” said Ellen. “On my way hame 
frae Broadlees.” 

“It must ha’ been fearsome,” said Peter. 

“Fearsome? I believe ye,” said Ellen, warming to her 
subject. “But that’s no’ the worst o’t, Peter. When I got 
hame to the Doo-cote there I found Ellen fair in the nerves, 
puir thing.” 

This again was a mainner o’ speakin’, for Young Ellen 
had only been a little excited. But Old Ellen was nothing 
if not thorough, and when she did tell a story, which was 
seldom, she took care to make it a good one. 

“Ellen in the nerves?” exclaimed Peter, reddening to the 
roots of his hair, which as it only began far back gave 
him more scope for blushing than most people. At the 
same time his eyes seemed ready to start out of his head. 

“Ellen in the nerves?” he repeated. “What for?” 

“Ah — that’s what I want ye to tell me,” said Mrs. Bin- 
nie. “That’s why I said I wantit the Chief Special Con- 
stable. It’s no’ very nice to hear folk ye canna see rinnin’ 
alongside o’ ye in the dark, but that I can stand, that I 
can put up wi’, seein’ it’s jist mysel’ that suffers, but folk 
rangin’ roond the Doo-cote when I’m no’ there an’ drivin’ 
Ellen oot o’ her seeven senses I can not tolerate, Peter.” 

“Nor can I,” exclaimed Peter. “Nor can I. But how do 
you account for it?” he said, after a moment. 

“I cannot account for it,” said Mrs. Binnie. “I can jist 
make a statement.” 

“Of course — of course,” said Mr. Dunwiddie nastily, and 
wrote down the word “statement.” “And have you any- 
thing more to state?” he added. “What did Ellen see?” 

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Binnie impressively. “She saw 


232 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

nothing. But both she and Mr. Ascher, that was with her 
at the time, gettin’ ready Mr. Carruthers’s supper, heard 
footsteps quite distinct, and after Mr. Ascher left an’ she 
was a’ by hersel’, she heard them again, an’ when I got 
hame she was fair shakin’.” 

“Fair shakin’ was she?” said Mr. Dunwiddie, becoming 
several degrees redder. 

“Ay, Peter — shakin’ like a leaf,” said Mrs. Binnie. “But 
wait ye till I tell ye the rest. Later on, when this was 
a’ past an’ I had got her quietened, she gave me a message 
from Mirny Forgan askin’ me to come to Cock-ma-lone 
immediately, for she had something to tell me. ... Ah 
well — there I went — whole three mile — for I always was 
fond o’ Mirny, an’ I’d heard she was near her end wi’ 
the Flu. But — ye’ll no’ believe it — when I got there sh£ 
was better, an’ no’ deein’ efter a’, and she would tell me 
nothing.” 

“She would tell ye nothing?” exclaimed Peter. “What 
for did she send for ye then?” 

“Ye may weel ask,” said Mrs. Binnie. “But she had 
meant to tell me as lang as she thocht she was to dee. 
Noo that she was to live she said she was feared to tell 
me.” 

“Feared?” said Peter. 

“Ay, an’ what was she feared o’?” said Mrs. Binnie, and 
then paused rhetorically. 

“God kens,” said Peter unnecessarily. 

“She was feared o’ death,” said Mrs. Binnie. 

“Death?” exclaimed Peter, horrified. 

“Nothing less I believe,” said Mrs. Binnie. “So long’s 
she thocht she was to dee onyway she wantit to tell — she 
was desperate to tell, an’ it’s my belief that she would 
tell it noo if somebody hadna pit the fear o’ death on 
her.” 

“Weel if that’s the case,” said Peter, “he’s a black- 
guard.” 


ANOTHER NOCTURNE 


233 

“Ay is he,” assented Mrs. Binnie. “An’ that’s why I’ve 
come this momin’.” 

“Yes — oh certainly,” said Peter. 

“An’ put it into your hands,” Mrs. Binnie continued. 

“Oh certainly,” said Peter again. “Quite right — cer- 
tainly. Then your opinion is ” he went on. 

“I was aye a lass,” said Mrs. Binnie, regardless of her 
age, “for pittin’ things thegither, Peter, an’ I’ve pit this man 
thegither that breathes hard aboot the woods, an’ ranges 
roond hooses at nicht, an’ lays the fear o’ death on folk.” 

“Mrs. Binnie,” said Peter solemnly, “I wouldna wonder 
but yer richt. Onyway, the man’s a blackguard.” 

Here he wrote down the word “blackguard.” 

“And,” he went on, “the case will be attended to in due 
course.” 

“I’m pleased to hear ye say that,” said Mrs. Binnie, 
“for noo I’ll maybe get some sleep this nicht. Ellen, yd 
see, Peter, gave me nae peace until I laid it a’ before 
ye.” 

At this point she rose. 

Peter also rose. 

“Mrs. Binnie,” he said, “I’m prood to hear ye say so. 
There is no one — as you know and as Ellen knows, that 
I would do more for — that I would do so much for. Tell 
Ellen that this — this — Breather — will be exposed at any 
cost. Tell her ” 

Here words failed him, and he had to pause to collect 
others. 

“Tell her,” he went on after a moment, “that I think 
I know who it is, that in fact I am sure — that I have re- 
ceived notice of him — that I am on my guard — and tell her 
too,” he added, becoming absolutely scarlet, “that I am 
ready to guard her as well, night and day, whenever she 
gives the signal.” 

“Peter,” said Mrs. Binnie, “ye’ll ha’ to excuse me, for 
I’ll tell her nothing. But come you to the Doo-cote yersel’ 


234 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

an’ say to her what ye’ve said to me, an’ as sure’s my 
name’s Binnie she’ll begin to fix the weddin’.” 

“No, no,” said Peter, highly pleased nevertheless. “I’ll 
ha’ nae mair o’ Ellen’s fixin’s. The way to dae wi’ Ellen is 
first to fix things an’ then tell her. To-day’s Thursday, 
Mrs. Binnie. What d’ye say to next Thursday?” 


CHAPTER XII 


IN WHICH MR. DUNWIDDIE HAVING PLACED HIS AFFAIRS 
UPON A SATISFACTORY BASIS CONCENTRATES HIS ATTEN- 
TION UPON THE PUBLIC WEAL, AND THE FUGUE DEMON 
KEEPS AT BAY OTHER UNSEEN FORCES AT THE DOVE- 
COTE 

The visit of Mrs. Binnie left her future nephew-in-law a 
prey to very mingled feelings. He was pleased with him- 
self, and with what seemed to him the adroit manner in 
which he had elicited the invitation from Mrs. Binnie. At 
the same time, when the heat of the moment had passed, he 
became conscious that, in his capacity as Chief Special Con- 
stable, he had committed himself rather badly. He realised 
that in his desire to impress Mrs. Binnie and, through her, 
Young Ellen, he had come forth too boldly into the open, 
and had virtually challenged to single combat this man who 
was haunting the neighbourhood in such a strange and 
startling manner. On second thoughts he feared that he 
had been rather reckless, and, as he weighed out stores and 
did accounts and talked to customers, he became quite cer- 
tain of it. Had it not been for the absence of his assistant, 
who was down with flu, he would have done no busi- 
ness, but would have retired to the seclusion of his back 
room, and given himself up to considering his situation. 
As it was, however, he was obliged to work, and more than 
one customer that morning might have benefited by his 
abstraction, had not all of them, fortunately for him, hap- 
pened to be friends of long standing. 

“Ye’re no’ yersel’ the day, Dunwiddie,” said one, as he 
handed back a shilling too much which had been given him 

235 


236 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

as change. “I’m thinkin’ it’s true what I’ve been hearin’, an’ 
that ye’re in love. Ye’re fair wandered.” 

“Bless ye, Dunwiddie — ye’ve forgot the weights, man,” 
said another, as he poured rice into the brazen bowl of his 
weighing-machine with a reckless hand. 

He longed for, yet dreaded, one o’clock when he would 
have to shut up his shop. It was the Thursday half-holi- 
day, but there would be no holiday for him. He would have 
to tackle duties beside which shopkeeping was mere child’s 
play. He would have to think, to devise, to plan, and then 
carry out, execute, accomplish something. If not to-day 
then to-morrow, if not to-morrow then the next day. 

“But indeed the less time I give myself the better,” he 
soliloquised after the manner of his betrothed, when, after 
he had found himself mixing the apples with the onions, he 
gave up trying to do anything but watch the hour approach- 
ing. 

His housekeeper, Kate Lamb, a taciturn deaf old woman, 
whose temper sadly belied her surname, always, because of 
a natural thrawn-ness in her nature, made a point of being 
late on the half-holiday. She made no exception to her rule 
on this occasion. The broth due at 1.15 did not come in 
till 1.43, and the appearance of the beef, which should have 
been at 1.25, was proportionately delayed. 

It was therefore well on to three o’clock before Mr. Dun- 
widdie, as he expressed it, got going. He had, however, 
done some thinking while he ate and drank. What per- 
turbed him most was the sense of his solitude combined 
with that of the disadvantage under which he laboured in 
being tied to his duties in the shop during practically all the 
hours of daylight. It was true that, according to Mrs. Bin- 
nie’s report, the activities of the man he was after all took 
place in the night-time. But apart from the difficulty of 
tracing anyone in the woods after dark, he had a very strong 
objection to doing so. His experience with Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, far from lessening his indisposition in this direction, 
had immeasurably increased it. It would now, he felt, be 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 237 

all but impossible for him to undertake the task, unless, at 
his back, he had co-operation and assistance. Nevertheless, 
because of what he had said to Mrs. Binnie, he hesitated to 
call in any professional aid, the more especially as it would 
have to come from a distance, the policeman responsible for 
Wood End and district being, at the time, one of the worst 
of the influenza patients. It would, besides, he felt, be un- 
worthy of the force which he represented and deserving of 
the scorn of Young Ellen, if, when he had given his word, 
he let others redeem it. At the same time, in order to locate 
the enemy if possible, he decided to draw a cordon round 
the woods, to set other people on the watch, to establish 
communications, to make a web in the centre of which he 
would be as a spider on the alert. 

The scheme pleased him well. It seemed to him im- 
pressive. He pictured Young Ellen listening to him describ- 
ing it to her, when he should go over to the Dove-cote to 
make his call. And if, on consideration, he was seized with 
some misgiving as to the number and size of the loop-holes 
in his net, he comforted himself with the reflection that, if 
it caught nothing else, it would at least capture Young 
Ellen’s imagination. For her benefit also, in the long in- 
terval between courses, he made a little field-map, with 
small dots for the points of observation, and a large one in 
the centre which represented his house. With a poet’s li- 
cence he made these all look close together, and connected 
them with lines — presumably telepathic — for they could 
have been nothing else — and the effect was so reassuring 
and so inspiring that he could hardly wait afterwards to 
finish his beef. 

His first point was a stone-breaker’s house about a mile 
to the south, a lonely little place on the edge of the trees, 
and here, with his account of the characteristics of the per- 
son to be observed, he all but scared the stone-breaker’s 
wife, who was a nervous woman, into fits. As she was, how- 
ever, very reserved, and confined herself for the most part 


238 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

to nodding her head in assent, he went on his way happily 
unconscious of the consternation he had left behind him. 

The next point was none other than Cock-ma-lone — in 
his opinion a very important point. Who knew what assist- 
ance Mirny, if she could be induced to reveal her secret, 
might not render? What she would not confide to Mrs. 
Binnie she might confide to him, in his double capacity of 
old family friend and chief special constable. To his great 
surprise and confusion, however, for he had heard nothing 
of the events of the night, beyond what Mrs. Binnie had 
told him, the door was opened to him by no less a person 
than Mrs. Abercrombie. 

She had doffed her shawls, but was still in her shortish 
petticoat, with a large towel worn over it apron-wise, and a 
red and white duster for head-dress. Her manner, however, 
was just as usual. 

“Ah, Mr. Dunwiddie, I am glad to see you!” she said. 
“Had you come to see Mrs. Forgan perhaps? I am sorry 
she is not well — she has the flu, and is so weak after a 
dreadful night that it really would not be safe for you to 
see her. But I will take any message for her if I may. 
Do sit down, Mr. Dunwiddie.” 

“Andy,” she then said in a stage-aside up the stair, “I 
can’t come up yet — Mr. Dunwiddie is in. Just keep on as 
you are doing.” 

“Righto,” said Andy’s voice. 

“Do sit down,” repeated Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“Thank you, M’m,” said Mr. Dunwiddie, and sat down, 
after Mrs. Abercrombie had taken another seat. “I did not 
know ye was here, M’m, or I would not have intruded, but 
I’ve come as a special constable on the look-out for the same 
miscreant that I was in search o’ the time you — the time we 
— first met, M’m.” 

“The same man!” Mrs. Abercrombie exclaimed. “What 
— haven’t you found him yet?” 

“No, M’m,” said Mr. Dunwiddie with some stiffness. 
“To find a man in these woods is more easy said than 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 239 

done. But he’s taken noo to breathin’ hard an’ scarin’ 
folk. That should sune finish him.” 

“Breathing hard and scaring folk?” said Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie. “Whatever do you mean?” 

As she spoke the bedroom door creaked suddenly, but in 
the interest of the moment neither heard it. They did not 
even hear the creak made by the bed when Mirny, half- 
fainting, scrambled back into it. 

“Whatever do you mean?” repeated Mrs. Abercrombie. 

Mr. Dunwiddie recounted what Mrs. Binnie had told 
him. 

“What a nasty man!” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“Are you sure it is a man? Is it not a were-wolf or some- 
thing? But no — of course you had warning — it’s a Ger- 
man.” 

“Which is worse,” said Mr. Dunwiddie. 

“Far worse,” she agreed. “Well — and you want Mrs. 
Forgan to be on the watch for him?” 

“That’s it, M’m,” said Mr. Dunwiddie. “An’ if she’s ill, 
maybe Geordie ” 

“I’m certain he will,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Thank 
God he’s in quarantine, so he’s at home from school and in 
his mother’s room now looking after her. I’ll tell him, and 
set him going for you. Is there nothing more I can do to 
help?” 

“Nothing, M’m,” said Mr. Dunwiddie, rising, “except,” 
he added, “to come back soon to Wood End. There never 
was a time when a leddy like you, M’m, was more needit 
there.” 

“Nevertheless I’m afraid I shall not get back for some 
days,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Two of the children are 
ill upstairs and Mrs. Forgan is still very weak. Even when 
her aunt comes to-night she will not be able to spare me. 
But Miss Kinross will be at the Dove-cote and can bring 
messages to me — or Mr. Ascher. If she can’t come — you 
can send Mr. Ascher.” 

“I will, M’m, an’ thank ye kindly,” said Mr. Dunwiddie. 


240 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“But I must be gettin’ on, for I’ve still to go to Wood End 
Station an’ then by train to Longshaws — and the Far Lodge 
an’ two three more places.” 

“Well if they all watch as we shall,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie enthusiastically, “he’s a captured man.” 

“And a punished man I hope, as he deserves to be,” said 
Mr. Dunwiddie. “Frightenin’ the young women.” 

“In other words, Young Ellen,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to 
herself, as she closed the door after him. “Dear Mr. Dun- 
widdie! He’s quite a knight errant.” 

The ladder-like stair had hardly ceased creaking under 
Mrs. Abercrombie’s ascending tread, and she was in the act 
of resuming her duties in the upper regions, when Geordie, 
seated sound asleep in a chair by his mother’s bed, felt her 
shaking him violently by the arm next to her. 

At first he could not bring himself to move. But his 
mother left him no peace, and presently he sat up drowsily. 

Even then, however, he could not make out what she 
wanted, and when he did, he experienced a throb of the 
former anxiety, for her words were strange. A moment’s 
observation however calmed him. She was quite cool, her 
eyes were as of old, her manner absolutely sane. 

“Geordie,” she said in her new weak low voice, that was 
but an echo of the old gay, resonant one. “Ye’re no’ very 
big, but ye’ve aye been sensible, an’ I want ye to range 
roond the woods till ye find Bob Lindsay for me.” 

“Bob Lindsay!” exclaimed the boy. “But he’s awa’ to 
France, mither. He’s no’ in the woods. Ye maun be 
dreamin’.” 

“Whist or they’ll hear,” she replied. “He never went 
to France. He’s no due to gang back for anither week. 
He jist wants a’body to think he’s oot o’ the country.” 

“To think he’s oot o’ the country?” repeated Geordie 
amazed. “But what for?” 

“I met him,” said Mirny, taking no notice of his ques- 
tions, “the day afore I took badly when I was gaitherin’ 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 241 

sticks in the wood. An’ he said he would think nothing o’ 
shootin’ me if I let on he was there, for he’d got to find oot 
afore he left what Young Ellen’s game was.” 

“Ay,” prompted Geordie as his mother paused as though 
in gloomy contemplation of one of the knobs of the bed. 
“Young Ellen’s games . . .” 

“I let him cairry on aboot her,” said Mirny after a mo- 
ment, “an’ that was wrang o’ me, Geordie; but I never 
likit Young Ellen, an’ I never can pit past the thocht that 
yer feyther had his supper there that first nicht he cam’ 
hame, an’ never sent word to me that he was cornin’.” 

“Noo, mither,” said Geordie, “ye said ye would never 
speak o’ that again. Ye promised feyther. . . .” 

“Ay, I promised,” said Mirny, “but ye canna help think- 
in’ whiles. A’ the same I had nae richt to let Bob miscall 
Ellen. An’ I was a rank coward to promise no’ to tell he 
was spy in’ on her. A rank coward, Geordie.” 

“No, no, mither,” said Geordie soothingly. 

“If he does anybody a injury,” said Mirny, becoming 
more and more excited, “it’s me that’ll be to blame, 
Geordie.” 

“No, no, mither,” said Geordie once more. 

“Haud yer tongue, laddie!” exclaimed his mother. “I 
ken what I’m sayin’, an’ I want ye to gang an’ tell Bob that 
he’s been seen an’ heard . . . an’ they’re a’ oot efter him 
... an’ that if he doesna clear oot quick . . . he’ll be 
captured . . . that’s the word — captured , for a German!” 

“But wha’s oot efter him?” said Geordie, his little blue 
eyes glinting like a terrier’s. 

“Oh, a ’body,” said Mirny. “Roond an’ roond the wood 
they are. They’re makin’ a chain, an’ they’re closin’ in on 
him. Soon he’ll no’ be able, tell him, to get past them.” 

“But, mither,” said Geordie, whose presence of mind 
never failed him. “If I tell him a’ this he’ll ken ye’ve telt 
me aboot him, an’ did he no’ say that he would shoot ye if 
ye let on? They say, ye ken, that he aye cairries a re- 
volver.” 


242 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Pm no’ carin’,” said Mimy recklessly. “I would rayther 
he shot me than that we should a’ be disgraced by folk 
cornin’ to hairm through me bein’ a rank coward. I would 
rayther be dead that daft, an’ it’s proper daft I would get 
if Young Ellen was shot instead o’ me. . . . Deed I’d ray- 
ther be shot now onyway.” 

She turned away from him with her face to the wall. 

“Noo, mither,” said Geordie, who since his father’s de- 
parture had had experience of such moods, trying to turn 
her round again. “Ye ken ye dinna mean that. What 
would we a’ dae — us bairns an’ feyther — if Bob Lindsay was 
to shoot ye?” 

“Oh, yer feyther would get Young Ellen then,” said 
Mimy, “an’ you bairns would a’ be glad to ha’ her for yer 
mither.” 

“Noo, mither,” said Geordie very firmly, “if ye dinna 
talk sense I’ll no’ listen to ye. What’s mair, I’ll no tak’ nae 
message to Bob Lindsay. An’ so I tell ye.” 

He stood up very determined. 

Instantly Mirny’s mood changed again. She held out her 
arms to him, and as he did not relax, she clasped his small 
hard hand between both of hers. 

“It’s jist you thwartin’ me, Geordie,” she said, weeping. 
“I canna staund it.” 

She seemed to be flushing into a fever again before his 
eyes. 

“I’m no’ thwartin’ ye, mither,” he said hastily. “Whaur 
d’ye think I micht find him?” 

“It was in the fir-plantin’ I saw him,” said Mimy brok- 
enly. “But Mrs. Binnie saw him on the road near Broad- 
lees, an’ Young Ellen heard him last nicht at Wood End.” 

“Oh, ay,” said Geordie, and no more. 

The places mentioned comprised an area of about six 
square miles. 

“Weel, so long, mither,” he added after a moment, and 
yielding to her he bent down while she flung her arms round 
his neck, and covered his plain little face with kisses. 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 243 

“Noo quiet yersel’ an’ sleep/’ he said. ‘Til mat’ it a’ 
richt.” 

When he had closed the bedroom door behind him the 
envoy stood in thought for a short space, and the result was 
that he mounted the ladder-stair and asked Mrs. Aber- 
crombie if she would speak a moment. 

Mrs. Abercrombie came hastily. 

“Your mother isn’t worse, is she?” she said anxiously. 

“No,” said Geordie, “but she’s forgot a message that 
should ha’ been at the Far Lodge yesterday an’ she wants 
me to tak’ it noo.” 

“The Far Lodge?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “But 
that’s right at the other end of the wood, isn’t it?” 

“Ay, thereaboot,” said Geordie. 

“And it’s nearly dark already. Surely she cannot mean 
you to start off now. Wait — I will see her. . . .” 

And Mrs. Abercrombie prepared to descend. 

Geordie, however, immediately barred her path. 

“No, if ye please, M’m,” he said. “She’s fair excitit 
aboot it. It’s a — important message. It’s makin’ her no’ 
weel?” 

“Oh, then, if that’s the case,” said Mrs. Abercrombie 
hesitating. “But you must have some tea first, or at least 
take some food with you. I will not allow you to go a step 
without that.” 

“I wouldna gang withoot it,” said Geordie. “I ha’ mair 
sense.” 

And before he left, he crammed into his pockets some 
cheese and the heel of a loaf. 

Auntie Been, whose name was short for Robina, her niece 
told them, came just after they had finished tea and proved 
to be a woman after Mrs. Abercrombie’s own heart. 

“She’s a regular old dear,” she said to Andy. “The chil- 
dren simply leapt at her, and Mrs. Forgan wept with joy at 


244 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

seeing her, which was uncomplimentary to us of course, but 
satisfactory all the same.” 

Andy laughed. She was setting Auntie Been’s tea. 

“Then are we to consider ourselves dismissed?” she said. 

“I am not,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Auntie Been has 
asked me to stay another night at least until she has redd 
her feet. What that means exactly I am not quite sure; 
but, in case it’s something else uncomplimentary, I shan’t 
ask her.” 

Andy laughed again. 

“Am I to go, then?” she said. 

“Yes, my dear, whenever you wish,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “I shall feel happier here if the fugue demon is 
being satisfied, and Ascher — poor Ascher — having the bene- 
fit of playing to you.” 

“Benefit!” exclaimed Andy. “It is I who am benefitting 
all the time. It’s so different hearing music like that, to 
hearing it in little scraps at concerts. I feel as though only 
now I had begun to understand what it is.” 

“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “you’ll feel that 
many a time. All art, all life, you’ll find — is made up c 
beginnings. But look, we’ve let the kettle boil over an 1 
splash all the hearth for poor Auntie Been — who I can sc 
though she is grateful to us, already thinks we are dasli- 
bad housekeepers.” 

Andy left soon afterwards, walked home without incident, 
and was received as though she had been Florence Night- 
ingale by Young Ellen. 

“To think o’ you an’ Mrs. Abercrombie never closin’ an 
eye all night!” she exclaimed. 

“Well — speaking for myself — ” began Andy. 

But Ellen simply would not listen to her. 

“All I can say is,” she said, “that I never heard any- 
thing like it.” 

On her supper-table Andy found a note from Ascher. 

“Dear Miss Kinross,” it ran, “may I come and play to 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 245 

you for a little? What that child said is haunting me, and 
I cannot get away from it. Of course I shall understand, 
however, if you are too tired. Forgive my asking you, but 
I could not help it.” 

Andy thrilled as she read the words, as one might thrill 
on hearing an involuntary cry for help, out of the very 
depths. 

“He shall have it,” she said, and sent an answer by 
Young Ellen. Then, though she had felt too tired to do 
so before, she did up her hair again and changed into her 
red gown. Ail the time she was doing this she was remem- 
bering his face as he had come to her in the night with his 
terrible question, and wondering, even while she rejoiced 
at it, that he was feeling like playing. 

“The thought of his sorrow must be like an intermittent 
disease,” she said to herself, “which leaves him sane and 
fit between — otherwise he would go under. . . . How will 
it all end? Is Germany to have him or Mr. Carruthers? 
In the meantime — ” she paused for a moment, looking 
thoughtfully at her own face in the glass. 

“In the meantime it will be strange to hear him play the 
nocturnes again — after last night. . . .” 

Ascher, however, did not play the nocturnes. 

He was not in the mood for them, he said. He was only 
in the mood, it seemed, for weird discordant things that 
gave her a headache and made her feel strained and sad. 

“What is that? Is it Scriabine?” she said wearily, in one 
of his abrupt pauses. But he did not answer, and she be- 
came aware that he was for the moment forgetting her, and 
simply playing his heart out. A strange, wild heart it was. 
She was almost glad when he rose and closed the piano with 
the air of one abandoning an attempt. 

“I can do nothing to-night,” he said, looking at her with 
unconscious yet desperate appeal in his eyes. “I cannot 
even play to you” 

Again Andy thrilled. She had not known she was a last 


246 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

resource. She sat down by the fire in Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
deserted place, and thence considered him gravely for a 
moment. 

“No,” she said. “I know what you want to-night. It’s 
not playing, it’s the fugue demon. You want to be pos- 
sessed.” 

“Possessed?” he exclaimed. 

“Yes,” said Andy. “I often am, myself, and I know it is 
exactly what you want.” 

“What is it like?” he said. 

She smiled at him. At that moment she felt years older 
- — like his mother in fact. 

“It’s like this,” she said. “When I begin writing a 
fugue, I have sometimes not gone beyond the statement of 
the subject and answer before something takes me out of 
myself and whirls me away, so that I forget everything 
earthly except the notes I am writing down.” 

She paused as she became aware of the expression on his 
face. 

“But has your demon power to drive out another pos- 
session?” he said. “For I am possessed already by that, 
‘everything earthly’ that you forget, by the horror, and 
terror, and fiendish cruelty of fate.” 

The last words were in a whisper. 

Andy rose hastily, a heavy sense of doom impending 
urging her to assuage his pain while she could yet do so, to 
relieve his oppression, even if it were only for a space. 

“Try my fugue demon,” she said as lightly as she could, 
and, going over to a side-table, she brought back writing 
materials. “Let’s both do one,” she went on. Then glanc- 
ing at the clock, “We’ll have time yet. Here’s a pencil 
and a subject.” She turned over the pages of the Bach. 
“We’ll both take the same one and compare — literally com- 
pare notes afterwards. Now — are you ready?” 

As she expected, however, he was not ready. 

“Surely you forget,” he said, “that I can’t compose — I 
never wrote anything original in my life.” 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 247 

“No — it is you who are forgetting,” she returned, sitting 
down opposite to him at the table, “that to write fugues — ■» 
some fugues — requires no originality! ” 

He laughed in spite of himself, then came over to the 
table and sat down. 

“Let go then,” he said almost gaily. “Bring on your 
fugue subject.” 

“Be patient,” said Andy. “You shall have it as soon as 
I have copied it.” 

She was as good as her word, and then there was silence 
save for the faint crackling of the fire and the slight sounds 
of their pencils upon the music-paper. 

The demon, however, confined himself to Ascher, as 
Andy very soon became aware. It was one thing to describe 
the effect of a fugue upon her, and quite another to expe- 
rience it with Ascher sitting opposite. She found it impos- 
sible to ignore him — not to look up when he did, not to 
smile when he smiled, not to reply, when, now and again, 
he said — 

“By Jove, I’ve got it this time!” or, “I say — that’s not 
so bad!” 

All this was distracting enough, but it was not nearly so 
much so as the sense of his gradual exhilaration. She could 
not help watching him as little by little the work absorbed 
him. She could not help noting how he would sometimes 
bend down over it, leaning his folded arms on the table, 
knitting his brows, twisting his mouth, biting his lips, in 
the full frenzy of composition, and again sometimes lean 
back to look critically at completed lines, absently smooth- 
ing his hair back from his forehead. 

Thus Ascher, all unknown to himself, came for the sec- 
ond time between Andy and her work, and this time as no 
shadowy ghost, but real, substantial down to the smallest 
detail. Instead of competing with him whole-heartedly she 
found herself making a mental catalogue of her opponent* 
Instead of being absorbed in her modulations she found 
herself noting his changes of expression. Instead of watch- 


248 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

ing where she could introduce figures of imitation she found 
herself watching a hundred other things — the lines that suf- 
fering had drawn upon his face, the strong yet sensitive 
moulding of his mouth and chin, the streaks of white in the 
fair hair over his forehead, the shabbiness of his neck-tie, 
the old-fashioned cut of his collar, the thread-bare appear- 
ance of his grey tweed elbows, his hand so slight and yet so 
strong, even the manner in which he held his pencil. . . . 

All the while, nevertheless, she was busy with her own 
fugue, working with the same dogged perseverance with 
which she had handled her last one. Her success, however, 
was even less than it had been before. 

“Any of Aunt Em’s blithering idiots could have written 
this,” she said to herself as she looked it over. 

She said nothing aloud, however, being afraid of inter- 
rupting Ascher’s fugue, which by this time was progressing 
with the utmost fluency. She pretended to go on writing, 
therefore, while the clock ticked away the hours, till at last, 
about a quarter to midnight, Ascher started up. 

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed, looking in dismay at the 
time. 

Andy laughed. 

“Are you better?” she said. 

“Better?” he said, and he drew a long breath. There was 
the gratitude, almost adoration, in his eyes of one who has 
been delivered from torture. 

“Better?” he repeated. “I am cured.” 

Even as he spoke, however, the shadow seemed again to 
fall upon his face. 

“For the time,” he added, but still trying to smile. 

“Continue the cure to-morrow, then,” she said lightly as 
*he gave him her hand in farewell. “It’s too late to-night 
to go on with it. But to-morrow the demon will await you.” 

Downstairs he found Young Ellen waiting to lock up and 
enjoying, from where she stood in the passage, a view of 
the moon through the open door. She was reflecting that 


MR. DUNWIDDIE TAKES NOTICE 249 

it would be her honey-moon, since Mr. Dunwiddie had duly 
called and informed her without preamble of the arrange- 
ments for the wedding. She was so absorbed in contempla- 
tion that she did not hear Ascher, and exclaimed in sur- 
prise when he appeared — 

“Oh, sir,” she said when she had recovered herself, “I 
was goin’ to ask if ye would do me a favour. Would ye 
play music for me at my weddin’? My uncle was to ha’ 
done it. He’s a real pretty player, but he’ll no’ be back in 
time. So I would be awful obliged if you would do it — the 
weddin’s to be next Thursday.” 

“Most certainly — of course I will,” said Ascher. Then 
recollecting himself, he said, “That is, if I am still here on 
Thursday.” 

“Oh, sir — do be here,” said Young Ellen. “I’ve kind 0’ 
set my heart on it. The rest o’ the weddin’s to be that 
dreich. It’ll no’ be like a weddin’ at a’. Jist the Mac- 
Kendricks from Longshaws, for he’s to be best man, an’ the 
minister, an’ the folk in the hoose, no’ a’ them either likely, 
for Mr. Carruthers’ll forget to come, an’ nae sugar on the 
cake, an’ nae dressin’ up — deed if there’s to be nae music 
I’m jist no’ for the weddin’!” 

“But couldn’t Miss Kinross be asked to play if I had to 
go?” said Ascher, laughing a little, for he had heard of 
some of the vicissitudes of this wedding. 

“Eh, no, sir,” exclaimed Ellen. “I would rayther ha’ nae 
music. The kind Miss Kinross plays would mak’ me fair 
affrontit.” 

Ascher laughed again. 

“Very well,” he said, “I’ll stay, till then. That’s set- 
tled.” 

“Eh, thank ye, sir,” said Young Ellen. “And,” she 
added as he went away, “it’s rale kind, an’ I’ll no’ forget 
it.” 

Till he had disappeared into Mr. Carruthers’s end she 
stood still for a time, as in a dream, contemplating, till 


2.J0 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

suddenly remembering how very late it was, she withdrew 
into the house again and locked the door after her. 

For a moment all was still outside. Then, from a laurel 
bush half-way down the garden a shadow detached itself, 
and gliding along quietly slipped out of Mr. Carruthers’s 
gate, just as a smaller one creeping out from under a 
rhododendron made a hurried exit through Mrs. Binnie’s. 


CHAPTER XIII 


IN WHICH GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT AND ANDY PRAYS 
FOR HER OWN SOUL 

The shadow which, to save words, we may call the rhodo- 
dendron one, was of course none other than Geordie For- 
gan, who, with that astuteness which belonged to him, had 
selected the environs of the Dove-cote as the headquarters 
of his expedition. 

“If it’s spyin’ he’s efter,” Geordie had said to himself, 
“it’ll be little use me trailin’ up an’ doon the woods lookin' 
for him. A’ I have to dae is jist to let him come to me, an’ 
tak’ my chance near Young Ellen.” 

Therefore, while Mrs. Abercrombie was imagining him 
tramping wearily in the direction of the Far Lodge, and his 
mother, tossing in her bed, was picturing him in worse 
situations, Geordie was already established in his coign of 
vantage eating his first ration of bread and cheese in com- 
parative comfort. Anticipating that he might have to re- 
main stationary till morning, he had come prepared to do 
so. In a farm-yard on the way along he had found two dry 
sacks in a place where he knew he would find them, and 
had brought them with him. One of these served him as 
a ground-sheet and the other as an extra wrap. It was very 
cold, nevertheless, as he was just beginning to realise, when 
a slight sound near him warned him that something was 
going to happen. 

The laurel bush was some distance off, but the ground 
was hard with frost and the night very still. Bob’s foot- 
steps, when he took up his position, were quite audible in 

251 


252 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

the rhododendron, and at the first sound of them Geordie 
sat up and prepared for immediate action. 

The action to his disgust, however, consisted in sitting for 
a long time motionless, seeing nothing and hearing nothing 
in the least extraordinary, though he was staring with all 
his eyes and listening with all his ears. Bob seemed to 
have been turned to stone. The laurel never so much as 
rustled. At last, fearing that he had been mistaken, and 
that the footsteps had existed only in his imagination, he 
crawled along to reconnoitre, and distinctly saw Bob stand- 
ing. He looked — so still was he — like a tree himself, with- 
drawn from the moonlight, portentous, awesome. 

Geordie lost no time in scuttling back to his place, where 
he sat down again, realising the seriousness of his under- 
taking. 

“Will his revolver be trained on the house?” he won- 
dered as he remembered his father’s tales of machine-guns, 
and the thought came to him that it would be very un- 
pleasant if Young Ellen were shot dead before his eyes. 
More than that, it would be disastrous. His mother would 
never forgive him. What would be worse, she would never 
forgive herself. All her life she would be miserable. . . . 

The thought went to his head, and he had actually risen 
to go and deliver his message there and then, when he was 
given pause by another consideration. 

Bob Lindsay, in the mood he was in, might shoot the 
first person he saw. In his male parent he had more than 
once witnessed this state of mind. His father, he felt cer- 
tain, when worked up as Bob must be worked up now, 
standing there with a revolver in his hand, would be quite 
capable of letting fly at the first comer. And if Bob did 
let fly, where would the message be then? for Bob had been 
a good shot long before he had gone for a soldier. 

What use would it be to Young Ellen if he — Geordie — 
was shot? What would be the good to himself? She 
would never even know he had died for her. He would 
not even be a hero. Besides, it would not prevent Bob 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 253 

shooting her afterwards if he wished, and his mother after 
that, for, though it was unlikely Bob would recognise him, 
as he had hardly ever seen him, it was not impossible. 

Clearly the only thing to be done was to await a less un- 
propitious moment, and Geordie was rearranging the sack 
around him when, to his horror, the door of Mrs. Binnie’s 
end opened, and Young Ellen herself, looking in the kindly 
moonlight really young as well as pretty, came tripping out 
with Andy’s message. 

“Now then!” said Geordie to himself, and he held his 
breath till Young Ellen reached the door of Mr. Car- 
ruthers’s end in safety. It must have been standing open, 
for she did not knock, but went in quickly, and did not re- 
appear for several minutes. Then she returned, however, 
walked slowly back, and disappeared again into Mrs. Bin- 
nie’s. 

“He’s no’ for shootin’ yet onyway,” said Geordie to him- 
self as the door banged after her, and so relieved was he 
that, being almost frozen, he slipped out on to the road and 
ran down the empty street to warm himself. 

As he came back headlong, he all but ran into Bob, who, 
for the same reason as his own, was coming out of Mrs. 
Binnie’s gate. Geordie, supposing him to be in pursuit of 
himself, was very badly scared. Fear, however, always had 
the effect of making him recklessly impertinent. 

“If Geordie was pit intil a cage wi’ a roarin’ lion he 
would set up cheek till him,” Mirny had often said. 

He did not fall below himself on this occasion. 

“Mind yersel’!” he said sharply, though he was four feet 
nothing and Bob over six feet two at least. 

They had both been back at their posts again for some 
time when Ascher came out of Mr. Carruthers’s end and 
went into Mrs. Binnie’s, after which, for a time, faint sounds 
of music could be heard from the back of the house where 
the sitting-room was. Soon, however, there was silence. 
Yet Ascher did not come out again. They heard the eight- 


254 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

day clock in Mrs. Binnie’s kitchen strike eleven. Still he 
did not come. At last, however, when Geordie’s teeth had 
began to chatter, and he was feeling chilled to the bone, 
a sound of voices just inside the door galvanized him once 
more into attention. 

The speakers were in the passage still. No words could 
(be distinguished, but, even before they appeared on the 
doorstep, Geordie knew that they were Ascher and Young 
Ellen. He knew too that Bob Linsday had moved and 
was leaning forward, and again he had to hold his breath, 
even to bite his lip, to keep himself from crying out. But 
once more the moment passed. Ascher returned to the 
Other End, and Young Ellen left the doorstep. 

The watch for that night then seemed to be concluded, 
for, hardly had the door banged, when Bob moved out from 
behind the laurel. At the same instant Geordie realised 
that here at last was his opportunity, and, as Bob emerged 
on to the high road from the gate nearest to him, Geordie 
made for Mrs. Binnie’s gate. As he did so, he saw that 
Bob had his back to him, that he was striding down the 
road in the opposite direction, and that if all his — Geordie’s 
— waiting and watching were not to be in vain, he must 
make up to him and say what he had to say to him. His 
brain felt numb, his teeth were chattering, his legs were so 
stiff he could hardly walk, much less run. 

“A’ the same,’* he said grimly, “something’s got to tak’ 
place.” And, with clenched fists and head down, he pres- 
ently charged into the enemy. 

The giant turned in a fury. 

“Damn you — is that you again?” he exclaimed, when he 
saw the size of his assailant. “Mind you yoursel’ this 
time!” he added, as he plunged his hand into his pocket. 

Geordie here shut his eyes so that he might not see the 
revolver which he was certain must be pointed at him. His 
power of speech, however, he was glad to find was still un- 
impaired. 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 255 

“Eh, mercy, it’s the German !” he exclaimed, his voice 
breaking on the last word into a thin squeak. 

“The German ?” exclaimed Bob, and Geordie heard that 
he had produced some effect. 

“But eh, sir, dinna kill me!” he went on with tragic 
eagerness, “for ye’ll get naebody else to tell ye what I’ll tell 
ye. They’re a’ oot to catch ye. They’re makin’ a ring 
roond the woods. But if ye’ll jist let me be — I’ll help ye.” 

The silence was so prolonged, after he had finished this 
speech, that Geordie risked opening his eyes again. No re- 
volver was visible, but Bob’s hand was still in his pocket. 

“Help me, then,” he said. “Tell me who are looking for 
me?” 

“There’s Mr. Dunwiddie, sir,” said Geordie eagerly, let- 
ting his imagination loose, for he had no further informa- 
tion, “an’ Scratton, the stane-breaker, and his wife, an’ the 
MacKendricks at Longshaws Station, an’ Gibbie the porter 
there, and — and — Mrs. Abercrombie.” 

“Mrs. Abercrombie!” exclaimed Bob. “Never!” 

“Ay — Mrs. Abercrombie — certain!” said Geordie. 

“Lord help me!” said Bob. “And there’ll be you, I sup- 
pose,” he added. 

“No, sir,” said Geordie with desperate fervour. “I’m a 
conscientious objector.” 

“A what?” exclaimed Bob, and it was as though the re- 
volver had gone off. “Turn round to the light there then, 
an’ let me see one. . . . An’ what may your name be, 
sonny?” he added suddenly, as the light fell on the boy’s 
face. 

“John Canterbury,” said Geordie promptly, taking the 
names that came uppermost, which were two of the last 
with which his master at school had crammed him. 

“Ah — well, John,” said Bob pleasantly, “if you’ll jist tak’ 
a canter roond yer ootposts, an’ tell them a’ to keep quiet, 
I’ll slip through, and you’ll be done wi’ me. And,” he went 
on as Geordie was about to depart, “if ye ken a Mistress 
Forgan hereaboot, tell her the man she met gaitherin’ 


256 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

sticks last week doesna care noo whether she lets on or no’, 
for he has found oot a’ he needit!” 

“An’ by jing, mither, he went off as quiet’s a lamb!” 
said Geordie triumphantly when he told the story. “Of 
coorse I never went to nae ootposts. I jist followed him 
withoot him seein’ me, till I saw him tak’ the train to 
Edinburgh at Cauldshields Station.” 

“Cauldshields!” exclaimed Mimy. “Bairn! Did ye 
tramp efter him a’ they miles?” 

“Aye, an’ I would tramp twice as far for you, mither,” 
said the son, after which of course he had to submit to in- 
ordinate hugging and kissing. 

“Wha kens but ye’ve saved yere mither from death an’ 
disgrace,” said Mimy brokenly, as she wiped her eyes after 
this outburst. 

“No, no, mither,” said Geordie, diplomatic to the last. 
“It wasna me that shiftit him, it was jist scunner at Young 
Ellen.” 

3 • • • • • • 

Next day the frost was gone and heavy rain was pouring 
down upon the woods. Each day broke as gloomily as the 
last, and so still that the light drip, drip of the water could 
be heard everywhere in the village and on the roads under 
the trees. Nothing seemed to flourish but the influenza, 
which spread over the whole neighbourhood like a blight. 
Even the grave-digger took it, so that the dead had to wait 
for strangers to prepare their last resting-places. The 
street stood thick with pools, and at one point where the 
drain was stopped up by withered leaves a great lake stood 
across the highway. Even the Dove-cote looked drenched 
and dreary, and the rain sounded louder than anywhere on 
its laurel bushes. Mrs. Abercrombie shivered at the sight 
of it, when she arrived home from Cock-ma-lone in the reek- 
ing station cab. As it came splashing through the pools, up 
the empty street, half-drowned fowls went scattering before 
it. 

“And really it was quite a relief to see them, poor dears,” 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 257 

she said to Andy afterwards, “for if they had not been 
there, I should have thought there had been another flood, 
and that not a soul was left this time except me and my 
driver.” 

This is anticipating, however, for Mrs. Abercrombie did 
not return till the Wednesday — the day before Young 
Ellen’s wedding. Much rain had dripped before then from 
the trees, much water run down the swollen brooks below 
the bridges. 

The fugue demon, so far as he had gone, had done his 
work well. Mr. Carruthers, eagerly on the watch, perceived 
a change for the better in his assistant, and was sensible o’ 
nights of a strange lightening in the burden which Ascher’s 
unhappiness caused to weigh upon him also. 

“What are you doing now in the evenings at the Other 
End?” he said one morning when Ascher, coming to see if 
he were awake, found him lying cogitating. “You seem 
never to play anything now, except fragmentary counter- 
point.” 

Ascher laughed. 

“You will never guess, sir,” he said. “I am writing. I, 
who never thought of writing fugues before, or anything 
else indeed. I — we — are competing.” 

He told him then about the demon. 

“I have discovered — or have had discovered for me,” he 
went on, his eyes becoming dreamy, “a wonderful faculty 
— the faculty of becoming possessed, so that I remember — 
I care for nothing else at the moment.” 

Mr. Carruthers clasped his hands behind his head, and 
settled himself more comfortably among his pillows. ’ 

“Am I to understand,” he said then, “that this counter- 
point has this effect— this fugue — this, whatever you call 
it?” 

“Yes,” said Ascher. 

“Strange,” said Mr. Carruthers. “What the Investigation 
cannot do, what the mystery and the wonder and the fas- 


258 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

cination and the glory of plumbing the depths of the ages 
cannot accomplish — this — scribbling can.” 

The word scribbling was spoken with vindictive em- 
phasis. 

“How do you account for it?” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“I don’t account for it,” said Ascher. “I only experi- 
ence it.” 

“And yet you never thought of counterpointing before,” 
said Mr. Carruthers, after a moment’s silence, “never for 
pleasure I mean. You never felt impelled towards it. 
You have no original genius for musical composition.” 

“Not a particle,” said Ascher. “I can criticise, but com- 
pose I cannot.” 

“Yet you find that it absorbs you more than playing 
does — more than interpreting the works of others?” 

“It relieves me more,” said Ascher. “Though why it is 
so I cannot tell you. It may be that these works you 
speak of are too full of the sorrow that is my sorrow. Out 
of their great grief they have made their little songs. With 
the fugue-writing it is different. It is a tour de force 
merely.” 

“As, yes,” said Mr. Carruthers, regarding him fixedly. 
“A competition — I understand. And every time, of course, 
Miss Kinross will beat you.” 

“No, sir,” said Ascher, laughing a little at his manner. 
“I cannot honestly say that Miss Kinross has beaten me 
yet.” 

“That’s strange, too,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I thought 
you said she was a genius.” 

“So she is,” said Ascher, frowning perplexedly. “It is 
strange, when you come to think of it.” 

At this, without warning, Mr. Carruthers took up one of 
his pillows, and dashed it violently upon the floor. 

“Damnation!” he said then. “Well, get along now, for 
I can’t stop in bed all day, though there will be nothing to 
do when I am up, but read, read, read I suppose.” 

Ascher did not move. 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 259 

“I am distressed, sir,” he said, “at this break in your 
work. Can it be because of me? Am I being a hindrance 
to you?” 

At this Mr. Carruthers fairly laughed aloud. 

“My dear Ascher,” he said, “why, of course you are. 
You are, I believe now, the only hindrance, the one thing 
between me and the light. If I could feel that you were 
free and happy, I too would be free.” 

“Yet you ask me to stay, sir,” exclaimed Ascher pas- 
sionately. “Why did you not send me away at the be- 
ginning?” 

“God knows it might have been better,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers. 

“It is not too late, sir,” said Ascher, very pale. “Fulfil 
your promise, lend me money for the journey, and before 
night I shall have left you — passed out of your life and the 
Investigation altogether.” 

Mr. Carruthers was silent for a moment, smiling 
strangely. 

“No, Ascher,” he said at last, “that is quite impossible. 
It is too late for that. Don’t you see, boy, that I have come 
to — care for you — that it is for this reason that the thought 
of your misery weighs me down, holds me back, intervenes 
between me and full enlightenment. Would it intervene 
less, do you think, if you went forth from me with those 
brilliant powers of yours, with all those qualities that would 
be of invaluable service to me, in order to take your place 
in the ranks of those who deserve nothing of mankind but 
punishment and the direst infamy?” 

“But, sir,” said Ascher much moved, “what then would 
you have me do? If I stay, I am a hindrance to you, too. 
God help me, there is no place for me in the world except 
in the ranks you speak of.” 

“That is not true,” said Mr. Carruthers, sitting suddenly 
up in his bed, tousled, grizzled, yet somehow impressive. 
“That is nevermore true. On the contrary, it is a damned 
lie. Your place is here. You are in the clutch of circum- 


260 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

stance at this moment — but are you not a man? Are you 
not a soul — which, though your present brain is not capable 
of remembering it, has probably many and many a time 
risen through such temporary entanglements, which has seen 
wars upon wars and all that they bring with them, wars, 
which like volcanic fires and fearful earthquakes, are full of 
what seems senseless destruction and fiendish cruelty, yet 
accomplish a definite purpose? Good heavens, man, look 
round — all nature is full of cruelty — all history. Your 
countrymen are not the only human fiends. In my own lit- 
tle Scottish town of Rathness, not so long ago, either, things 
were done that equalled in horror anything I have heard 
of in connection with this war.” 

“But not to-day,” said Ascher. “Not in modern times, 
and not by order, not by a whole people. . . .” 

“What is to-day?” said Mr. Carruthers. “Before we 
know it, it will be to-morrow, and the day that was to-day 
will be lost in the past, and the things done in it forgot- 
ten or excused. Rightly or wrongly, my dear Ascher, this 
is so. As for things done by order by a whole people — 
What about Rome and the Christian massacres? What 
about Spain and the Dutch republic? Yet it is not thought 
a disgrace to-day to be either a Roman or a Spaniard 
. . . No . . . What is done is done, my dear Ascher. You 
cannot help it. Let the dead past bury its dead, all of the 
past that Would clog and hamper us. We, who are 
pioneers, must escape from it, come what may; we must 
rise through it as the green blade does, through layers of 
death, set only upon reaching the light.” 

“By God, sir,” said Ascher, “when you speak like that 
I feel as though I could do it. It is just that — perhaps I 
am not a pioneer by nature — there are times that ” 

“We all have such times,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I my- 
self have had such times, when the finite things of every 
day bulk so largely as to obscure the infinite. I am passing 
through one of these times now because of you, Ascher, 
— and therefore I have a right to ask that you pray to your 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 261 

Maker to set free your soul, that it may rise to this occasion 
and deliver you from your earthly self.” 

That night — the last before Mrs. Abercrombie’s return, 
Andy waited long for Ascher. 

At first, however, she did not notice how late he was, 
for she had had a letter by the evening post. It was from 
Archie. 

“My Dearest,” it ran. “Your last has just come, and as 
I have a few minutes I must just answer it. You ask 
how we are getting on. We are getting on splendidly — you 
understand, — genuinely — no camouflage. In a few weeks — 
a few days, perhaps— but enough of that now. It’s you, my 
darling, I want to talk about. 

“I can’t tell you how glad I am you are having this 
splendid chance — surely it is one in a thousand — of having 
a real musician to help you, and how proud I am that he 
thinks it worth while — and bucks you up about your 
work. That will be more help to you than anything. 

“But, dear — I’m just human, you know, and I’m not 
musical — at least what you call musical, though you know 
how I would love to hear this Ascher of yours playing. 
(Now don’t be angry at my saying he is yours — of course 
he is — every one is who comes anywhere near you) and — 
when I read about all this I just feel what impudence I 
had to ask you to tie yourself to such a common-placer 
as I am, and what an angel you were to say you would 
have me. And I ask myself whether you are not too much 
of an angel — whether you have been too good perhaps, and 
have done what you are sorry for, and would like to undo, 
if you were not too unselfish and dear and sweet? And I 
want to say to you, my darling, that if this is so I would 
rather know — though I think you know what it would mean 
to me to lose you. Anything would be better than that you 
should suffer. I could never learn music, but I have learned 
to love you, Andy, more and more every day, every hour, 
till it has come to this, that if I thought I was standing 


262 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 


between you and any happiness, and that you were sac- 
rificing yourself for me, I should see that I never came 

back.” 

Andy laid this letter on the table before her and sat 
gazing at it, motionless and silent, like one who, long aware 
of inexplicable sensations, has been suddenly told that they 
are symptoms of the end of all things. Her mind was 
filled with overwhelming wonder that this, which had come 
upon her, had been hidden until now, as, illumined, ex- 
plained, by Archie’s words, the fateful hours of the last 
week — of her companionship with Ascher — passed slowly 
in review before her. She saw all the little happenings, the 
infinite moments of those few days, in a new white light 
that revealed to her their real significance, and, looking 
round with amazement, she realised that awakening had 
come at last — awakening strange and wonderful. The very 
room had changed. It had become a haunted place, filled 
and dominated by one presence. 

“It has become possessed now,” she said softly to her- 
self, using the old phrase in a new sense. So had the 
whispering woods outside, the scent of wet ivy-leaves com- 
ing in at the open window, the tick of the clock, the crackle 
of the fire, the lamplight falling on the ink-splashed table- 
cloth. 

Yet there, in the midst, was Archie’s letter. Sorrow 
gripped her at the sight of it, self-reproach, regret, and, 
seizing pen and paper, she wrote an answer to it straight 
off, not without tears, not without a sob or two, but without 
pause or hesitation. 

“Archie,” she wrote. “Your letter has just come, and 
as it lies beside me here on the table it seems to me as 
though you yourself were with me. It is so like you, so 
splendid, so straight and fine, that I must answer it at 
once and truly, though you should never again write to 
me. 

“Archie, I knew from the first that I was not worthy of 
you, but when you sent me back to my music, I realised 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 263 

just how unworthy I was. A love like yours should have 
a love like itself in return. Mine was not anything like 
yours, Archie. When I got deep into my music it was 
still first with me. I could think of nothing else, not even 
of you for the time being. I almost wrote then and told 
you this. If it had not been for Aunt Em I would have 
written then. She said this would pass — that it did not 
matter — that — oh — she said all kinds of reassuring things. 
But something has happened since that has changed every- 
thing, something that, after your letter of to-night, you must 
know and immediately. . . . This Ascher — my Ascher as 
you call him, though he is not mine, Archie — he cares 
nothing for me — you see I am telling you everything to 
the very bottom, this Ascher is a German, one of the most 
hated class. He was fighting at the front — fighting against 
us — he was cast ashore at Rathness from a U-boat. And 
yet I love him, Archie — I have come to love him. ... It 
was his playing first, I think, but it was not only that. It 
was Aunt Em’s description of him as well, of him coming 
to her a waif out of the night. Then Mr. Carruthers came 
and told me he was a German, but that nevertheless he 
was akin to all that was true and good, and somehow I felt 
as though I had known that from the first. And so when 
Mr. Carruthers asked me not to tell Aunt Em, because he 
wanted to keep him here to help him, and because Aunt 
Em, as president of a branch of the British Empire Union, 
would be bound to denounce him and have him sent away 
— I did not tell her. I have been mean and underhand to 
dear Aunt Em, even to you, Archie. And if necessary I 
would do it again for him. I do not ask you to forgive me, 
only to forget, to forget as soon as possible. But one thing 
I would ask for the sake of what is past. Do not betray 
the secret I have told you about Ascher’s nationality to 
Aunt Em or anybody. You can safely keep it. He is what 
Mr. Carruthers said, akin to all that is noblest. He will not 
betray you. ... As for me, I am going away — not to-mor- 
row, for that is Young Ellen’s wedding-day; and they have 


264 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

been so good and kind that I should not like to go till 
their great event is over. But next morning I shall go, never 
to return here, never to see him again on earth. It is 
strange that it is I who should bring this upon you, I who 
would have given the world to make you happy. But I 
cannot help it, and you are so true and honest that I can- 
not pretend to you. . . . Good-bye, Archie.” 

It was only when she came back, after having gone 
across the street in the rain to post this, that, glancing 
at the clock on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was after 
nine. 

“My Ascher has not come,” she said bitterly, quoting 
Archie’s jesting words. 

Then, standing at the mantelpiece, gazing down into the 
fire, she realised that she must get used to his not coming, 
to his never more needing her, to being no more able to 
help him. 

She ought to be glad, she told herself, that he had not 
come to-night, that he required her and her fugues no 
longer, that her going away would make no difference to 
him. 

But she was not glad . . . she was not glad. . . . 

Looking up in a kind of agony she met the sad eyes of 
Beethoven glooming down upon her, and for the first time 
it seemed to her as though they were full of wistfulness. 

“You knew,” she whispered. “You knew what it was to 
be not wanted.” 

She could stand there no longer. She went over to the 
window and, snatching aside the curtain, gazed oujt into the 
rainy night. ... A faint breeze was stirring — presage per- 
haps of better weather — but it seemed to her that a sigh 
went up from the woods — a sigh of resignation. She 
dragged the curtain close again. ... A moment later she 
had begun to pace the room in a passion of rebellious 
grief too deep for tears or speech. Then suddenly she 
stopped short. What if he had gone — gone mysteriously as 
he had come — gone without farewell? 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 265 

But even as the thought passed through her mind with a 
stab of sharp despair, she heard his footstep on the stair, 
and at the sound a great calm fell upon her. . . . 

As she turned to meet him, it seemed to her as though 
he must know what had just passed, as though the room 
must be a-thrill with it. At once, however, when she saw 
him, she became aware that, for the moment, she was not 
foremost in his thoughts. All about him there was a strange 
aloofness. So might the disciples have appeared when they 
came down from the Mount of Transfiguration. 

“What have you been doing?” she said almost involun- 
tarily, so evident was it that something new had befallen 
him. Then a terror seized her of what he might be about 
to tell her, of what fresh calamity he might be going to 
announce. 

“'What have you been doing?” she said again, with beat- 
ing heart, yet, realising with a strange joy, that whatever 
it was, he had come to her with it, come instinctively appar- 
ently, almost unconsciously perhaps. . . . 

He paused for a moment still before replying, looking at 
her abstractedly as though recalling his thoughts from a far 
distance. 

“Doing?” he said at last. “I was praying, praying to be 
released from my earthly self.” 

“Praying to be released?” she said awestricken. 

“I had never prayed like that before,” said Ascher, his 
eyes, though they were meeting hers, still vague and mys- 
tical. “It was very wonderful.” 

“It helped you?” she said almost in a whisper, for she 
was breathless with apprehension. 

“Yes,” he said, “it gave me a tremendous feeling of com- 
panionship with something infinitely great, infinitely high, 
infinitely powerful.” 

“With God,” said Andy. 

“Yes,” he replied; “but what helped me most was the 
wonderful sense of my own soul rising to meet this great 
Companion. For the first time I became conscious of One 


266 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

under God who is myself — whom I recognise as part of 
me, one who, nevertheless, has no need of anything 
earthly.” 

“Not even of music?” said Andy in spite of herself. 

“No — curious, is it not? — not even of music,” he said. 

Then after a moment he added — 

“Which is well, for I must get past that.” 

“Past that?” said Andy. 

“Yes,” said Ascher, “I am to be a pioneer. If I am 
to be of any use to Mr. Carruthers I must rise through all 
that is past.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Andy eagerly, “but not music surely. 
Why — he loves music — he loves you to play to him.” 

“Yes,” said Ascher. “But he will be willing to forego 
that. If I am to be a pioneer, if I am not to hinder him, I 
must never play again.” 

“Never play again?” exclaimed Andy aghast. “But 
why?” 

“Because I cannot,” said Ascher, “if I am to be what he 
wants me to be. Music you see — ” he paused for a moment, 
“is the very essence of all I want to forget.” 

She did not answer, and they sat for a moment in silence, 
while the rain pattered down steadily on the woods. 

“I must go,” said Ascher at length, but, as he lifted his 
eyes to her face, he paused in the act of rising, in utter 
astonishment. For the dark eyes looking into his were full 
of unshed tears which, even as he gazed, brimmed over and 
fell with a splash on the red gown, the lips were trembling, 
the cheeks were pale as death. He sat down again imme- 
diately, suddenly pale himself. 

“Andy!” he exclaimed. 

It was the first time he had called her by that name, yet 
neither noticed the event. 

“Yes, I’m crying,” Andy burst out, feeling for her pocket- 
handkerchief, and when she found none, letting her tears 
flow unchecked. “I’m crying, because I cannot bear that 
your music is done and over. . . . Yes, I know,” she went 


GEORDIE FORGAN DOES HIS BIT 267 

on as he would have spoken. “Don’t speak to me. I’m 
not worthy — for you see I’m just — earthly — but I’m going 
to try — I will try — to get past this too — I’m going now to 
pray that ” 

The last words were inaudible. 

She was gone, and her bedroom door had closed behind 

her. 

She had not all gone, however. On the floor near where 
she had been sitting was the missing handkerchief — a flimsy 
thing of lace and cambric. He picked it up. It was still 
warm from her bosom, and it had a faint scent of violets — 
an earthly scent. Yet, holding it in his hands, he had all 
but pressed it to his lips, when full remembrance came to 
him, and, snatching it away again, he laid it down and 
hastened out. 

Andy by this time was on her knees in her darkened 
room, at a chair by the open window, regardless of the rain 
beating in upon her. 

“God Almighty,” she besought, “Thou Who art in- 
finitely great, infinitely high, infinitely powerful, release me 
too from my earthly self . . s ” 


CHAPTER XIV 


IN WHICH, AMONGST OTHER THINGS, SOME ACCOUNT IS 
GIVEN OF THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 

It was the day after this that Mrs. Abercrombie arrived, 
and, from the time of her coming until the wedding next 
day, she was the centre of activity. Even where she was 
not, the whole Dove-cote seemed to feel her presence and 
to be as Mrs. Binnie said, the brighter and the jollier for 
it. 

“Though Lord kens,” said the bride, “it’s no’ very jolly 
I’m feelin’.” 

“Hoots havers, lassie, it’s jist the weather,” said her 
Aunt, who was in her element in the midst of prepara- 
tions. 

The wedding was fixed for half-past five to suit the con- 
venience of Mr. MacKendrick the station-master, who not 
only was to be best man himself, but was to bring with him 
a cousin of his own in the ministry — and always referred 
to as Cousin Wanless — who, in the absence of the local 
tlergy, had consented to perform the ceremony. 

“Sic’ a like hour!” said Young Ellen. “It’s neither one 
thing nor the other.” 

Such as it was, it came, however, and with it Mr. Dun- 
widdie in his elder’s coat, with a white carnation in his but- 
ton-hole, which had been provided by Mrs. Abercrombie. 
A bouquet for the bride had also been provided by her, 
and flowers for the sitting-room, which was to be the scene 
of the ceremony. * 

“An’ it’s awful kind, I’m sure,” said Young Ellen to her 
Aunt after she had seen them, “but I wish they’d no’ a’ 
268 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 269 

been white flowers. It mak’s it mair like a funeral than a 
weddin’.” 

And really it cannot be denied that it did. The gloom 
without and the gloom within were matched by the gloom 
of Mr. Wanless. The bride wept from start to finish, and 
the bridegroom had the grinl appearance of one determined 
at all costs to endure. Even Mrs. Abercrombie, constrained 
to be silent, could, during the ceremony, do nothing to 
enliven things, and the wedding march, though Ascher duly 
played it, sounded almost grotesque, it was so incongruous. 
From outside also there was no help. The village, by order 
of Mr. Dunwiddie, had not been made aware of the event 
taking place in its midst. He had said that he felt that 
any demonstrations of joy would be out of place both in 
the state of the weather and that of the community’s health. 
The real fact of the matter was, however, that, not even 
now being absolutely certain of Young Ellen, he thought 
it better to be on the safe side, and not to risk any public 
affront. Even Kate Lamb, his housekeeper, knew nothing 
of what was going on. 

“But my dear man,” Mrs. Abercrombie had said when 
he had told her this, “you’re going home immediately, 
aren’t you? What will you do about the arrangements?” 

“Jist as I would have had to do anyway, M’m,” Mr. 
Dunwiddie had replied. “She’s that thrawn she’ll be bet- 
ter prepared to receive us if she kens nothing, than if I’d 
told her.” 

“Isn’t he delicious?” Mrs. Abercrombie had added, when 
she was relating this to Andy, as they stood waiting after 
the ceremony to be summoned to the bridal feast down- 
stairs. “Do you know he dressed here, so that Kate Lamb 
might have no inkling. And she’s over there now. I saw 
her from my bedroom-window, standing looking out into the 
rain as bored as possible, and thinking nothing’s ever going 
to happen to her. I find the situation piquant.” 

Andy laughed at this with the bitter mirth of one to 
whom nothing more can happen. . . . That day, her last it 


270 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

seemed to her, for beyond it all was dark, was passing 
swiftly and more swiftly. Till the hour of the ceremony 
she had not seen Ascher, and now she had heard him play 
for the last time, the wedding march from Lohengrin — 
strange finale — strange mockery — and was aware, though 
she could not see him from where she stood, that he was 
at the other window, silent, aloof, absorbed in his own soul 
probably. 

And this was to be the end. 

In the morning she must go — without word or sign. . w w 
No . . . that was impossible. He would think it strange, 
at all pvents Mr. Carruthers would. She must say good- 
bye after the feast, lightly — with some jest suitable to the 
occasion — say it anyhow — God helping her — as though it 
were not for ever. . . . 

The Investigator, contrary to expectation, had remem- 
bered the ceremony and come in time. He had even sub- 
mitted to have a white chrysanthemum put in his button- 
hole by Mrs. Abercrombie. Nothing, however, would in- 
duce him to be present at the bridal feast. 

“Don’t ask me, my dear Ascher,” he had said, when 
Mrs. Abercrombie sent after him to see if he would not 
reconsider his decision. “If it hadn’t been for that Wanless 
man I would have come. But, for the sake of all parties, 
as our good Mrs. Binnie says, don’t bring me into contact 
again with that man Wanless.” 

Ascher therefore went back alone. But he, too, was in 
no hurry to meet the man Wanless, or indeed to meet any- 
body in all the world. His surging thoughts, and one 
wonderful memory that stirred him to the depths of hfe 
being, were for the moment sufficient company. 

The rain had ceased for the first time for days, and m 
the garden were cool twilight and the scent of the earth, 
and, as he stood dreaming, a breath as of spring-time came 
from the woods, laden with the fragrance of the fir- 
trees. ... 

The bridal feast, meanwhile, was beginning in the kit- 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 271 

chen. Curtains had been drawn across the window, the 
lamp was lit, the table was laden with good things, and, for 
the first time, a feeling of festivity seemed to be present 
among the guests. 

“Really, my dear,” Mrs. Abercrombie had confided to 
Andy on their way downstairs, “in all my experience I 
never found a party so hard to get going. Though they are 
so few, they must weigh — mentally — tons.” 

A surprise was in store for her, however. She had not 
reckoned with Cousin Wanless, who was, though she had 
not known it, a man of moods, and had become, since she 
had last seen him at the ceremony, as cheerful as before he 
had been gloomy. 

Cousin Wanless was really an excellent man, kindness 
itself to his parishioners, and the most debonair of bachelors. 
In certain circles he was considered both a beau and a wit, 
and was accustomed to be the life and soul of choir teas 
and church soirees. It was unfortunate for him that the 
entertainment at which he was now about to preside was 
neither the one nor the other, and still more unfortunate 
for him that he was totally unaware of his misfortune. 
There was something pathetic in Cousin Wanless’s attitude 
of mind that evening. He, however, did not feel the least 
pathetic. He felt inclined to be frisky, and to receive with 
a levity which was both disconcerting and alarming the 
information that the gentry were also to be of the party. 

Mrs. Abercrombie had, of course, invited herself as well 
as her fellow-boarders to the feast. Mrs. Binnie and Young 
Ellen would never have thought of taking it upon them- 
selves to do so, and, while highly sensible of the honour 
conferred upon them, the whole company with one excep- 
tion would have preferred their absence to their presence. 

The one exception was Cousin Wanless. 

“Indeed I would have thought it very strange if they had 
not come,” he said to his cousin-in-law Mrs. MacKendrick 
in answer to some remarks she made. “What are you 
afraid of? I who associate with the upper classes every 


272 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

day can tell you that the higher they are in the social scale 
the easier they are to get on with . 57 

“Are they?” said Mrs. MacKendrick, and she was glad 
at least that Cousin Wanless was pleased, for, so far, she 
felt that the entertainment had hardly been on a level with 
her brother’s importance. 

She knew he was pleased by a way he had of echoing 
himself after he had ceased speaking and, regardless of any 
interruption, repeating his last phrase like a cue for the 
next. 

“Easier they are to get on with,” he proceeded. “As 
the duke said to me the other day ” 

But what the duke said will perhaps never be known to 
Mrs. MacKendrick, for at that moment Mrs. Abercrombie 
in her black silk, followed by Andy in her red gown, en- 
tered. 

Cousin Wanless had already seated himself at the end 
of the table, and now thumped upon it with his knife-handle 
to show that he was master of the situation. 

“Come away, ladies,” he said in an encouraging and 
hail-fellow-well-met manner that made Mrs. Binnie’s flesh 
creep, while the bridegroom, scarlet with confusion, rose 
from his seat and Mr. MacKendrick followed his example. 

“Move you away now, Mary,” continued Cousin Wanless 
in a loud jovial voice. “I don’t want an old woman like 
you. I want the belle next to me!” 

“And quite right too, sir,” said Mrs. Abercrombie imme- 
diately, though she had become rather pinker than usual, 
and in her eyes there was a certain amount of glint. “It’s 
the minister’s prerogative. Come along, Young Ellen.” 

She beckoned to the bride who was standing sharing her 
husband’s mortification at the other side of the table, and 
Young Ellen had taken a step forward to obey Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, when the knife-handle thumped again. 

“No, no,” said Cousin Wanless. “No brides for me, 
thanks. I’ve done my duty by the bride already: let her 
husband attend to her. Eh, Dunwiddie? You attend to 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 273 

her. It’s your turn now. As for me, I’m out now to 
enjoy myself. It’s the young lady in the red dress I 
want.” 

At this Mr. Dunwiddie turned petunia colour, and his 
bride was seen to be on the verge of tears. 

To their astonishment and grateful delight, however, Mrs. 
Abercrombie and Andy both laughed. 

“Take the seat of honour, Andy,” said Mrs. Abercrombie 
gaily. 

“With pleasure,” said Andy at once, and took it. 

It was as she was doing so that Ascher entered. 

His entrance provided Cousin Wanless with another op- 
portunity. 

“Come away, sir,” he exclaimed, with a genial grin. 
“Come away as soon as ye like now, for you’ve lost your 
chance of gettin’ to sit beside this red, red rose that’s early 
sprung in June, here.” 

Thus said poor Cousin Wanless, blundering all unawares 
into a holy of holies. To Ascher, coming straight from the 
garden and his thoughts, the speech and the grin together 
were nothing short of sacrilege. 

His face blanched and his eyes blazed. 

“If you are referring to Miss Kinross, sir,” he said, be- 
fore Mrs. Abercrombie could stop him, “I shall be obliged 
if you will call her by her own name.” 

The company sat petrified. Even Mrs. Abercrombie was 
silent. 

“It seemed best just to let things take their course,” 
she said afterwards. 

Cousin Wanless, held up in mid-career, remained for a 
moment absolutely speechless. Then catching sight, with 
the tail of his eye, of Mrs. MacKendrick’s blank face, he 
pulled himself together. 

“You would be obliged?” he said with unmistakable 
emphasis. 

“We would all be obliged,” said Ascher quietly, controll- 
ing an almost overwhelming desire to smite Cousin Wanless 


274 fTHE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

across the mouth. “We are none of us accustomed to hear 
Miss Kinross spoken of in that familiar manner.” 

Here there was another silence, but it only lasted about 
a second, for, before Cousin Wanless could think of a retort, 
Mrs. Abercrombie intervened. 

“Shall we begin?” she said cheerfully, and as she spoke 
she beckoned Ascher to the seat next to her and nodded 
to Mrs. Binnie, who promptly asked the other combatant to 
say grace. 

During this armistice, Mrs. Abercrombie racked her 
brains for subjects of conversation, anticipating that a large 
number would be required. They were, for they had con- 
stantly to be changed, because no one spoke for a time be- 
sides herself, but Ascher and Cousin Wanless, who seemed 
to find in every topic introduced some point upon which 
they differed. 

At last, however, she remembered the Joint Enterprise, 
and, wondering that she had not thought of it before, she 
immediately introduced it. Here at last, she was certain, 
was something that would interest the entire company, and 
bring forward the bridegroom out of his unseasonable 
obscurity. 

Andy had been doing her best to second Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, but for two reasons her conversational efforts had not 
been attended with their usual success. For one thing 
Cousin Wanless, either through fear of Ascher’s lowering 
appearance, or because he considered her the cause of his 
mortification, spoke to her no more and hardly answered 
when she spoke to him. For another thing, since Ascher’s 
outburst, she had been longing to get away by herself to 
think about it. She had been comparing the Ascher who 
had sat opposite to her by the fire the night before telling 
her of the Quest and of the beginning of his new era in 
which music and she were to have no part, with the Ascher 
of a few minutes ago, who had stood facing Cousin Wan- 
less blazing with anger. She was conscious of a sudden 
mad hope. Lest the thoughts of her heart should be plain 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 275 

to see, however, she did not dare so much as to look in 
Ascher’s direction, and it was not till near the end of the 
feast that their eyes met at last for one long moment. 

Then, however, remembering his as they had been the 
night before, vague, mystical, unearthly, she could have 
laughed aloud in reckless happiness, for they were now as 
she never before had seen them. . . . Her own fell before 
them. . . . 

She turned hastily to talk to Mr. MacKendrick. 

Mr. MacKendrick, however, had just received a question 
from Mrs. Abercrombie, and was in the act of answering 
it. 

Andy began listening idly, glad not to have the trouble 
of talking. 

“No, M’m,” Mr. MacKendrick was saying. “I can’t say 
we’ve seen anything about Longshaws yet.” 

“Have you seen anything here, Mrs. Binnie?” was the 
next question. 

“No, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie, who had been rendered 
monosyllabic by the Wanless episode. 

“Have you, Mrs. Dunwiddie?” Mrs. Abercrombie went 
on undaunted, and making use for the first time of the 
bride’s new name. 

The effect was happy. The spirits of the company re- 
vived, and eager talk began all round the table. Only 
Ascher and Andy were silent. Ascher because he was 
plunged in his own thoughts, Andy because of her ignor- 
ance, for amongst all the things of which she and Mrs. 
Abercrombie had talked since her return from Cock-ma- 
lone, the enterprise of Mr. Dunwiddie had, by some chance, 
never been mentioned. 

“What are they all talking of?” she said to Mr. Mac- 
Kendrick the first time she saw any prospect of being 
heard and listened to. Every one had happened to stop 
talking at the same moment. 

“The German that’s hidin’ hereabouts,” said Mr. Mac- 
Kendrick. 


276 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

The words sounded out clear and distinct. Andy for a 
moment felt physically sick, as though something cold had 
gripped her heart and all but stopped its beating. But a 
moment later it bounded on again, for Ascher had begun 
to speak. 

“Did you say a German?” he said, addressing Mr. Mac- 
Kendrick. 

Andy looked up at him, trembling. Though very pale 
he was outwardly calm, but, as he waited for the answer to 
his question, he poured some water into a glass and drank 
it. 

“Yes, sir,” said the chief special constable. “An’ one 
o’ the wiliest o’ the lot I’m thinkin’, for though it’s weeks 
now since I had warnin’ o’ him sneakin’ into the place, I’ve 
never yet been able to lay my hands on him.” 

“Weeks, did you say?” said Ascher. “How many 
weeks?” 

“Mr. Dunwiddie heard first the very night we came,” 
Mrs. Abercrombie explained. “Indeed he took me for the 
German!” 

She laughed, and a ripple of laughter went round the 
table. It stopped, however, at Ascher, and at Andy, whose 
eyes had never left his face. 

“Who sent the warning?” he said quietly. 

“Ah, that I canna tell ye,” said Mr. Dunwiddie; “but I 
can show ye the paper if ye like, sir. I cairry it always 
with me.” 

With those words he took a little note-book out of his 
waistcoat pocket, and from it produced Big Janet’s manu- 
script. 

Then handing it over to Ascher — 

“Read it oot, sir, if ye please,” he said. “There’s 
some here that hasna seen it, an’ it would be as well for 
them to hear it.” 

Ascher took the paper, and unfolding it he laid it upon 
the table before him. Andy wondered at this, till she saw 
how his hands were trembling. 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 277 

He could, indeed, not have held it steadily. As it was, 
the words, in clumsy print, unequal, blotted, swam for a 
moment before his eyes. 

“Will I read it for ye?” said Cousin Wanless as he hesi- 
tated. “I’m accustomed to reading manuscript.” 

“Oh, surely you don’t read your sermons, do you, Mr. 
Wanless?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, at which there was 
some laughter. In the midst of it Ascher began. 

“To the Chief of the Special Constables, Wood End,” 
he read steadily. “Look out for an Enemy Alien. This 
is urgent and important, and is a sure message from one 
who knows but does not wish to be known.” 

Here he paused suddenly for a moment. Then — 

“Rathness, Eastshire,” he went on hoarsely, “16th 
October 1918.” 

“Thank you,” he said, handing the paper back to Mr. 
Dunwiddie. Then, laughing, he turned to Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie. 

“Strange, isn’t it,” he said, “the warning came from 
Rathness.” 

His eyes were wild, but no one noticed them but Andy, 
least of all Mrs. Abercrombie, who was talking now to 
Mrs. Binnie. 

Ascher turned to Mrs. MacKendrick, who was on his 
left. 

“And you are all helping Mr. Dunwiddie are you,” he 
said, “to hunt down this man?” 

“Oh yes, sir,” said Mrs. MacKendrick. “There’s a ring 
all round the woods. We can’t be long now. Indeed ” 

Here, however, Mrs. Abercrombie, who wanted to get 
nearer Mrs. Binnie, as she could not hear what she was 
saying, rose from her seat, and this was taken as the signal 
for all to rise. 

Cousin Wanless, who was again bored, now that the feast 
was over, suggested that the time was getting on, and asked 
Mrs. MacKendrick, in an audible voice, when would the 
bride and bridegroom be starting? To this Mr. Dunwiddie, 


278 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

with the vision of Kate Lamb before his eyes, replied that, 
contrary to custom, the bride and bridegroom would see 
their guests off first. 

Mr. Wanless rejoined that, in that case, the sooner they 
went off the better, since they were preventing their good 
friends beginning their honeymoon which, he added face- 
tiously, he now saw awaiting them up above the tops of the 
trees. . . . Mrs. MacKendrick then remarked that that was 
a mercy, for she had wondered how the station cab would 
ever manage in the dark. Somebody else said that it would 
be a fine night for the Hunt. And, though they were all 
teetotal, Mrs. Abercrombie insisted upon standing them all 
a glass of whisky to drink the bride’s health and confusion 
to the German. 

It was at this point that it was discovered by the com- 
pany at large that Ascher had left the room. 

“He’s gone round to see if Mr. Carruthers wants any- 
thing,” said Young Ellen. “He told me.” 

“But he can’t go yet,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. 
“Andy, dear, do run round and tell him to come and drink 
the bride’s health. Get him to come, and James Car- 
ruthers, too, if possible,” she added aside with characteristic 
urgency, as Andy, flinging a cloak of Mrs. Binnie’s about 
her which she found in the little entrance-hall, obeyed 
her. . . . 

Ascher had not waited to close the outer door of the 
other end. It stood open to the wall, as though flung 
violently back. The breath of spring had blown out the 
lamp that always stood on the table, and both the hall and 
the stairway were dark. Feeling her way, Andy went up 
the stair and, guided by the light streaming out from un- 
derneath it, she went towards the writing-room door. It, 
too, was ajar, but before she had time to push it wider* 
open, that she might enter, she heard Mr. Carruthers say 
harshly, almost fiercely — 

“By God I will not. What? Let you flee before a set 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 279 

of numbskulls as though you were a common criminal? 
Never, Ascher!” 

“You promised, sir,” came Ascher’s voice. “It was the 
condition of my staying — that, whenever I should wish to 
return to my country, you would lend me the means to do 
so.” 

“I was a fool to promise,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I 
should have known better, but I know better now, and I 
beg you to stay, Ascher. Believe me, I am right. You are 
not yourself, you are excited, hysterical — let me judge for 
you. If the worst comes to the worst — I can arrange — I 
can explain everything. ...” 

“And be suspected — punished for harbouring an enemy 
alien?” cried Ascher. “No, sir — believe me — it is you who 
are not yourself. Your feeling of — of — friendship for me 
blinds you to your own position. But I — I see it clearly, 
sir — I should never have come here.” 

“Bosh!” exclaimed Mr. Carruthers. “We British are 
surely not all idiots. We surely can distinguish sometimes 
between what is and what is not. I know men myself — 
two or three at least — one a relation, and two students of 
my father’s once — who are high up in affairs — in close 
touch with everything, and all three excellent chaps. They’ll 
put us all right. Only be persuaded to stay, Ascher. . . . 
Good God, there is a life-work here before you!” 

A short pause followed during which Andy, outside, lean- 
ing half-fainting against the passage wall, listened breath- 
less for the answer. 

It came at last. 

“No, sir,” said Ascher, his voice trembling for the first 
time. “I would give the world to stay, but I cannot.” 

There was another pause, and again Andy held her 
breath. It seemed to her as though Mr. Carruthers were 
never going to speak. But he, too, spoke at last. 

“Why?” he said very quietly. 

“Because I am not fit for the Quest,” Ascher burst out 
passionately. “Because I would only clog and hamper you, 


280 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

and drag your kind heart down and down through misery 
after misery. I am one of the damned, sir!” 

“Nonsense, Ascher!” said Mr. Carruthers sharply. “You 
know what I think about that. . . . You are in love. That’s 
what it is. In love” — he seemed to bark the last words 
at his companion — “with that girl Andy.” 

The girl Andy here slipped down by the wall and kneeled 
on the floor, being unable to stand any longer. She could 
still listen, however. 

Ascher laughed a short laugh that seemed to end in a 
sob. 

“In love,” he exclaimed. “Is it what you call in love — 
this fire, this longing — this awful madness that makes the 
Quest, the whole beautiful world, even your friendship, sir, 
seem as nothing to me, if I have not Andy?” 

“My poor boy,” said Mr. Carruthers, and his voice had 
changed and softened. “My poor lad, since when have you 
known this?” 

“My soul has known it always I think, sir,” said Ascher. 
“She must have been my mate in some other happier life. 
I had, without knowing it, been waiting for her ” 

“While she got engaged to some one else,” said Mr. Car- 
ruthers abruptly. 

Ascher laughed. 

“Oh, that wouldn’t have mattered,” he said. “We had 
met late — but not too late perhaps — ” he paused, then sud- 
denly burst out with the former violence. “But yes,” he 
exclaimed, “it was too late — five years too late.” 

“But she has not been engaged five years,” said Mr. 
Carruthers. 

Then he remembered. 

“Ah, I see,” he said. 

“Five years ago,” said Ascher, taking no notice of the 
interruption, “I could have gone to her — not worthy of her 
— no one on earth is worthy of her I think — but I could 
have gone as the son of a great nation to which it would 
have been no dishonour for her and her children to belong, 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 281 

which had not earned the execration of the world and be- 
come outcast, alien — God, it is hard to be an alien! ” 

There was a moment’s pause. Then — 

“So that I cannot even ask her if she loves me,” he said 
quietly, but to Andy it seemed as though she were hearing 
the still small voice after the tempest, more full of meaning, 
of bitter sorrow than all that had gone before. “I cannot 
even tell her that I love her.” 

“Ascher,” said Mr. Carruthers, and his voice sounded 
strange and thick, “I know a little of what you are suffer- 
ing. I too — love — notice — it is the present tense, Ascher — 
yet years ago, she whom I love — told me she could never 
love me.” 

“Sir!” exclaimed Ascher. 

“I seem fated,” said Mr. Carruthers, “not to find anyone 
— in this present existence — to be my mate — in any sense.” 

“Don’t make it harder for me, sir,” exclaimed Ascher. 
“You know I must go now.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carruthers. “I know you must go now. 
In the first agonies of your sorrow you will be better, come 
what may — doing what you believe to be your duty. I 
will give you the money now. I will keep my promise. But 
swear, boy, that if you are ever free from this intolerable 
torment, you will come back to me and the Investigation.” 

“I swear it, sir,” said Ascher, and she heard him moving 
across the room. She, in her place, moved also, rising to 
her feet, trembling but determined. . . . She heard Mr. 
Carruthers go over to his desk. 

“The money is here,” he said. “Since you must go — 
go at once — I cannot bear — ” he stopped abruptly. “Go 
at once,” he repeated. “You can walk to Wood End Sta- 
tion — there will be some train. You will find a way out 
somehow. . . . For my part I shall say that I sent you on 
a quest.” 

Andy heard the Investigator laugh bitterly as she went 
quietly and swiftly down the stair. 


282 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Half an hour later Ascher had left the Dove-cote, taking 
with him only the money and the clothes he was wearing. 
As he stepped out on to the road, he could hear the guests 
in the act of dispersing, and Cousin Wanless, now unre- 
strained, making jokes in his sonorous bass voice. The sta- 
tion cab from Wood End — for it will be remembered there 
was no cab at Longshaws — was standing at the open door, 
with the lamplight streaming out upon it, and, between 
it and the door, he could see the bride and bridegroom 
standing together on the threshold waiting to see the last 
of their guests. They were talking happily in low voices, 
and, even as he looked across at them for the last time, he 
saw Young Ellen, when the driver’s back was turned, slip 
her arm through Dunwiddie’s, and the delighted Dunwiddie 
turn towards her. . . . 

He was glad when a bend in the road prevented him 
seeing or hearing anything more of the Dove-cote. . . . 
Of Mrs. Abercrombie, of Andy he dared not think. All the 
energy of his mind, he felt, must now be concentrated on 
the task of getting back to where he belonged, of removing 
his contaminating presence out of the midst of these happy 
people. ... As he trudged along wearily, for he realised 
suddenly that he was very tired, he thought of himself as 
he had been little more than two hours ago in the garden, 
breathing the fragrance of the woods, and it seemed to him 
as though he had been another being. 

In the reading of the warning, in the holding of his own 
condemnation in his hand, he had received the last death- 
blow to his pride, he who but a moment before had looked 
into the eyes of Andy and seen strange, wonderful things. 
There was something horrible in the incident. . . . Then 
the paper itself. Who had sent it? That it was dated 
from Rathness, from the very night of his being there, 
added the last pang. 

The only one who had recognised him, so far as he knew, 
was old Sandy, and that the betrayal should have come 
from old Sandy’s cottage seemed almost more than he could 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 283 

bear. That old Sandy himself should have betrayed him 
was very natural. His mind was gone. He would not know 
what he was doing. But David Craig — Big David — and 
Jess — was it possible? Jess, who had always made so much 
of him. . . . 

There seemed to be no other solution to the mystery, 
however. 

He tried to think that some one else might have recog- 
nised him, some one in the station, in the street. But his 
thoughts, though he thrust them forth, were unable to find 
other shelter, and flew back evermore to the little house 
among the dunes. 

With his mind thus on the rack, any added claim uporf 
his attention had become an unspeakable annoyance, and it 
was with a feeling of despair that he became aware first of 
quick light footsteps and then a woman in a dark cloak 
standing right in front of him and evidently waiting for 
him. It was as though some indifferent stranger had 
strayed by chance into a torture-chamber. Next moment, 
however, he had come to an abrupt standstill — speechless, 
almost senseless for the moment, for between the folds of 
the dark cloak he had seen a gleam of red in the moon- 
light. 

“Andy — Miss Kinross. Can it be possible?” he whis- 
pered. 

Without a word she came forward and would have taken 
his hand in hers — but he drew back from her. 

“For God’s sake,” he said passionately, “do not touch 
me. You do not know what you are doing. You do nof 
know who I am.” 

“I do,” she said simply. 

He was silent with incredulous amazement. 

“You — know — ?” he said at last, trembling. 

“That you are a German — yes,” she said. “I have 
known for days — for weeks — Mr. Carruthers told me be- 
fore” — she drew a quick breath — “before I knew I loved 
you.” 


284 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“Good God!” he whispered. Then again — “Good God!” 

“Yes, God is good,” she answered, forcing back her 
rising tears. “He has given us at least this hour, Martin 
— and me the chance to say — that, come what may, I am 
ready to follow you to death and beyond death.” 

“I cannot believe it,” he said hoarsely. “I must be 
mad I think.” 

“Not now,” she said quickly. “But you were mad before 
to think of going away, without telling me — without asking 
me. ...” 

“How do you know this?” he said, sudden realisation 
coming to him. “How did you know I was going away?” 

“Because I listened,” she said at once. “I heard every 
word you said to Mr. Carruthers — and — as you had made 
up your mind — I made up mine. I couldn’t let you go — 
like that.” 

Her eyes brimmed over with tears in spite of her, but 
she dashed them away again. 

“My Andy,” he said quietly, but to her there seemed 
to be everything in those two words. Taking both her 
hands, he stood looking down at her mournfully, linger- 
ingly, as though for remembrance. 

She read her doom in his face, and her sense of his 
need of her, more even than her need of him, drove her 
for a moment frantic. 

Suddenly, and without warning, she burst into wild sob- 
bing, turning away from him, in an abandonment of grief. 

An instant after, however, she had recovered, with a pang 
of horror at herself, for he had exclaimed hoarsely — 

“For God’s sake, don’t do that!” 

It was a cry for help, a cry of agony. 

“Don’t drag me lower than I am now,” he implored. 
“You do not know what you are doing — what you might 
make me do — You who are — simply everything to 
me. . . .” 

All that was fine in her rose in response to that breath- 


THE WEDDING OF YOUNG ELLEN 285 

less voice, to the fierce clasp of the cold hands, to the des- 
perate appeal in the wild eyes. 

“It is over,” she said, looking up at him calmly again, 
though the tears were still running down her cheeks. “But 
let me come with you a little way, Martin.” 

He made no answer in words, but, taking her hand again, 
he drew it through his arm and held it in both of his. Then 
they went on together. 

A path turned off just there into the wood, a short cut 
to the station, and mechanically they took it. Enough 
moonlight was falling through the leafless branches to show 
them the way, which was broad and mossy. The rain of 
the past week had saturated the ground, and their footsteps 
fell softly as on some rich thick carpet. 

They went on in silence. It seemed to Andy as though 
already all had been said. And Ascher could not trust 
himself to speak, for, with all the joy of this wonderful 
revelation, was mingled the deepest despair he had felt 
yet. 

Of what use he was saying to himself was Mr. Car- 
ruthers’s comfort now — his assurances that all the disgrace 
and infamy would pass — be forgotten after long years — 
there was no comfort anywhere. Even God — what could 
God do for this? what had He done? what allowed to be 
done? He had permitted a crowned madman, an irrespon- 
sible human fiend, with his train, to trample in the dust 
this happiness. . . . The great darkness came down upon 
him as never before. . . . Andy, so near and dear, was all 
unconsciously goading him to madness — to forgetfulness 
of everything but that she loved him and was ready — if 
he but said the word — to go with him down to the depths. 

They had come to an open space among the trees where 
the gurgle of a brook could be heard rushing in full 
flood between its banks, and the tall grey stems of giant 
beech trees stood pale and stately like great pillars. . . . 
It was the shrine, but Andy did not recognise it, though 
the fallen trunk was still there as on the day of the picnic. 


286 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

She heard nothing, saw nothing, was conscious of nothing 
in earth or heaven, but of Ascher’s presence and of the 
coming parting. 

It was nearer than she thought. 

Suddenly Ascher came to a standstill, and, once more 
crushing both her hands in his, pressed them passionately 
to his lips. 

“Good-bye, 57 he whispered. “Go now ... for pity’s 
sake, go quickly. . . .” 

She could not speak, and turning away abruptly he went 
over to the fallen tree-trunk. There, sitting down, and 
leaning his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his 
hands. . . . 

She waited for a moment or two, tom with anguish. 

“Good-bye, Martin,” she said at last. “This side death 
— or on the other, I shall be yours always — waiting — watch- 
ing. Good-bye, till we meet again.” 

But he said no word. And taking his silence for a com- 
mand — there, alone in the moonlight — she, weeping, left 
him. 


CHAPTER XV 


IN WHICH MRS. ABERCROMBIE FINDS HERSELF ABSOLUTELY 
UP AGAINST IT 

Mr. Dunwiddie, it will be remembered, had relied upon 
his housekeeper, Kate Lamb, doing the unexpected thing. 
Even he, however, had not anticipated that when he and his 
bride arrived home she would have gone to bed after lock- 
ing the front door by mistake. Her deafness of course 
precluded any hope of waking her, even had her bedroom 
not been in the attic over the back-shop, to which the only 
other access was by a high-walled garden, whose substantial 
green wooden door was also discovered to be locked. Undis- 
mayed, however, the bridegroom announced that, if Mrs. 
Binnie would lend him a ladder for a moment, he would 
not be five minutes in gaining admittance. The ladder was 
accordingly brought, and held in position not only by the 
two Ellens but by Mrs. Abercrombie, who also encouraged 
everybody all the time, but in stage whispers because of the 
villagers. 

“One felt as though one were taking part in an elope- 
ment,” she wrote afterwards to Archie. “You’ve no idea 
what a moon there was. And what a night it was alto- 
gether. One never would have guessed it was an ordinary 
home-coming. But Mr. Dunwiddie seems to be one of those 
people who never can do anything without something dra- 
matic happening.” 

It took more than the five minutes he had given himself, 
however, for Mr. Dunwiddie to get into his abode, for 
when he reached the top of the wall, he found he had not 
remembered that there was no pear tree just there to climb 
287 


288 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

down the other side by. And as his bride, on hearing this, 
absolutely forbade him to drop, and as he was unwilling to 
retrace his steps down the ladder, he had to crawl along 
the top of the wall feeling with one foot at intervals until 
he did find a pear tree. He did get in at last, however, 
and not only opened the door to the bride but lifted her 
across the threshold, a thing which he admitted afterwards 
he never could have done had it not been for the ex- 
hilaration of the thought that there was no Kate Lamb 
looking on at him. At the same moment Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie, who had come prepared, broke a large cake of short- 
bread over the bride’s head. Altogether, as she said after- 
wards, when she said farewell to the happy couple on the 
doorstep, it had been a delightful home-coming, and if Kate 
Lamb, who was a ward of Mr. Dunwiddie’s and impossible 
to dismiss, still loomed ahead, they had, she reminded them^ 
shown her that they could do without her, which, in the 
race for precedence, was a ripping start-off. 

In this excitement Mrs. Abercrombie had forgotten all 
about Andy and Ascher, though she had been very annoyed 
with them for not returning from Mr. Carruthers’s end in 
time to drink the toasts. On her return to the Dove-cote, 
however, in the company of Mrs. Binnie, and on hearing 
from her that, contrary to all appearance, for the festal 
table was still to be dismantled, there was nothing she could 
do to help her, Mrs. Abercrombie decided that, as the empty 
sitting-room with its fading white flowers was very dreary, 
and she felt moved to speak her mind to all three truants 
at the other end, she would take her knitting with her and 
step over. 

James, with two other visitors there, could not possibly 
be engaged upon the Investigation at the moment. She 
felt in the mood too for society, for talk, for laughter, for 
exchanging reminiscences of the •wedding, for giving an 
account of Mr. Dunwiddie on the wall, for, in short, doing 
anything rather than sitting down dull and solitary until 
bedtime. 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 289 

Instead, however, of the voices she had expected to hear 
when she reached the other end, all was darkness and 
silence. The outer door, however, was standing open — 
back to the wall, and she groped her way up the stairs. 

It seemed as though Mr. Carruthers had heard her com- 
ing, for she was startled to find him standing, as though 
he were awaiting her, at the open door of his writing-room, 
and, at the first sight of his face in the lamplight, the gay 
greeting she had had ready for him died on her lips. 

“Something has happened/’ she said to herself. “Some- 
thing dreadful has happened.” 

“Well, James,” was all she said aloud, however, and she 
said it cheerfully enough though a little breathlessly. 

“It is strange,” said Mr. Carruthers, “I was just coming 
to see you — for I want to speak to you to-night — imme- 
diately.” 

“Tell me first,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, the healthy red 
in her cheeks fading a little, “Is Andy Kinross here?” 

She saw him start as she said the name, and her heart 
contracted with alarm, even before he said quickly and 
sharply — 

“Miss Kinross here — no — why should she be here?” 

“Because I sent her,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I sent 
her after Ascher. He had gone away just as we were about 
to drink the toasts, and I sent her to fetch him. Do you 
mean to say she did not come?” 

“No,” said Mr. Carruthers. 

“Yet I saw her start,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“You saw her start,” exclaimed Mr. Carruthers. “What 
time was that?” 

“She ought to have been here only about five minutes 
after Ascher,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

There was a moment’s pause. Then — 

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Carruthers faintly. 

“James,” said Mrs. Abercrombie suddenly, “has this — 
what you have to tell me— anything to do with Andy?” 


2QO THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

As she waited for his answer she felt all at once faint 
and giddy. 

“Take a chair,” said Mr. Carruthers, watching her, and 
moving across to the chair he turned it towards her. She 
took it and sat down, while he looked round vaguely as 
though for another, and, finding none, remained standing. 

Mrs. Abercrombie motioned impatiently with her hand. 

“The books, James, ” she said sharply. 

He sat down on the books. 

“Now,” she said, “tell me. And James, remember I’m 
an old woman, tough in the fibre, and able to bear things, 
and for God’s sake, if there’s anything bad — don’t beat 
about the bush.” 

“I won’t,” said James, “and the only reason that I 
haven’t answered your first question is that I myself don’t 
know the answer to it.” 

“Tell me the rest then,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “and 
let me judge.” 

“By God!” exclaimed James suddenly, “I only wish I 
had let you judge sooner.” 

“Sooner — ” said Mrs. Abercrombie faintly. “Is it then 
— late for anything?” 

“Yes,” he said grimly. “It’s late at least for me to begin 
making a clean breast of things to you now, I should have 
done it on the first night you came here, and from my heart 
I beg your pardon, Mrs. Abercrombie.” 

“You beg my pardon?” she exclaimed. “What for? 
. . . Don’t drive me demented, man. Speak out, get on 
. . . speak out.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Carruthers, bringing out 
everything with a rush, “for grossly deceiving you, for 
allowing you to deceive others, for permitting you to run 
the risk of suspicion and punishment — in short for — for not 
letting you know, Mrs. Abercrombie, that Ascher is a Ger- 
man.” 

For one long moment Mrs. Abercrombie sat as though 
she were turned to stone. Then her lips moved, and it 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 291 

seemed to Mr. Carruthers that she tried to articulate the 
word Ascher. But no sound came from her. 

Suddenly, however, she recovered her voice, while her 
cheeks flushed scarlet and lightnings flashed from her eyes. 
In her anger she seemed to have recovered her youth also. 
She flung back her head, her bosom heaved. 

“She’s a handsome old devil,” said James to himself as 
he folded his arms and bent his head before the storm. 

“So this is how you reward me, James Carruthers,” she 
said, “for coming here to look after you — for offering to 
help you ” 

She paused for a moment to consider her injury, but 
James, though he would have liked to do so, still thought 
it wiser to make no comment. 

“For treating you as I have done,” she went on, taking 
fire as usual at her own words, “for trusting to your word 
- — for accepting your guarantee — for — for — in short looking 
upon you as an old friend and a gentleman.” 

“Mrs. Abercrombie — ” began Mr. Carruthers. 

But Mrs. Abercrombie took no notice. 

“Of course I was warned before I came,” she went on. 
“Your sister told me how impossible you were, how it was* 
nothing to you whether Britain won or lost this war. . . .” 

“I must protest,” James burst out. “I neither said nor 
thought that.” 

“I don’t care what you said or thought,” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. “You are selfish and self-centred and utterly un- 
patriotic — that’s what you are, and you ought to be 
ashamed of yourself. And simply because you wanted 
Ascher to help you with your Investigation — which for all I 
know may be some other pro-German thing. . . .” 

“Really, Mrs. Abercrombie — ” interrupted James. 

“You made a fool of me — simply a fool,” she went on, 
dabbing her eyes. 

“I deny it,” said Mr. Carruthers firmly. “There were 
no fools in the matter. Your own kind heart guided you 
aright from the very first. Remember it was you who 


292 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

brought Ascher to me. You had recognised him for your- 
self as an artist and a gentleman.” 

As Mrs. Abercrombie could not contradict this she 
passed it over. 

“You might as well argue with an eel as with a woman,” 
thought James, as she proceeded. 

“To think,” she said, “that I, the President of the 
Rathness Branch of the British Empire Union — and you 
know that, James — your sister must have told you — so that 
it is no use your denying ft.” 

“I am not denying it,” he said. 

“That I — who had offered to help Mr. Dunwiddie to 
hunt down ” 

Here she stopped short, a new and startling thought 
striking her. 

“You surely don’t mean to tell me,” she exclaimed, “that 
Ascher is the German — the man the warning was about?” 

James nodded. 

“Good heavens!” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

Then after a moment — “So it is known,” she said, “in 
Rathness as well as here, that, evening after evening, I 
have been entertaining ” 

“No,” said Mr. Carruthers. “So far as I can judge it is 
not known. But of course if I had known of the warning 
I should have acted differently, just as you, Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, would yourself have acted differently, if you had 
allowed Ascher to explain who he was — as he tried to do, 
I believe, more than once on the first night he came to 
you.” 

“// I had allowed!” cried Mrs. Abercrombie. “He ought 
to have insisted upon explaining to me. But of course — 
what else could one expect of a German?” 

“Mrs. Abercrombie,” exclaimed Mr. Carruthers, starting* 
up from his seat upon the books, “you may blackguard 
me as much as you like — I deserve it, and I can stand it, 
but I can not stand hearing Ascher blackguarded.” 

“James!” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, aghast at his 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 293 

white face and quivering lips. This was a James Carruthers 
whom she had never before seen, and the sight gave her 
pause, even in the midst of her invective. 

“It was my fault,” he went on, “my fault entirely from 
beginning to end — for if he had not wanted to come to me 
— he would not have lived that night to reach your house — 
would not have allowed you to bring him here, would not 
have been persuaded to stay when he did come — yes — 1 
wanted him for the Investigation, for before this orgie of 
blood and destruction and hate began, a friendship had 
grown up between us, one of those rare companionships 
that occur once in a life-time, and I wanted the boy — not 
only for the Investigation, but for myself.” 

He paused, and there followed a moment’s silence. 

Mrs. Abercrombie’s brown eyes had grown as soft as 
they were hard before. 

“James,” she said, “I was unjust to you just now — 
unkind — cruel ” 

“Not at all,” he replied. “I deserved it — perhaps more 
than you think. But I would do everything over again to 
have him back — to save him from going down with his 
country to his doom. He is a German as you say — but, 
Mrs. Abercrombie, if you had been here in this room an 
hour ago and had heard him as I did, of his own free will, 
renouncing life and love because he was a German, you 
would feel as I do about it.” 

“Life and love?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Renouncing 
life and love?” 

“I am giving him away of course in telling you this,” 
said Mr. Carruthers. “I have no right to do so, but as I 
have been so wicked already a little more wickedness won’t 
matter — and — I think you ought to know by the way — 
that I ought to tell you — that your Andy — Miss Kinross — 
has known for some time what his nationality was.” 

“Andy — has known?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie in a 
kind of whisper. “Andy?” 

“I thought it better to tell her,” said Mr. Carruthers, “but 


294 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

I asked her not to tell you as I wanted to keep Ascher 
here and did not want you in your official position as 
President of the Rathness Branch of that League — I forget 
what you call it — to have any responsibility in the mat- 
ter.” 

“Really, James,” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie, her anger 
flaming up once more, “you are too considerate. I am 
extremely grateful, most indebted I am sure. But why — 
if I may be permitted to ask the question — why did you 
tell Andy? Why did you not spare her responsibility 
too?” 

“Because,” said James, “to do so would have been to 
assume too much myself.” 

“I should not have thought that you minded that,” 
said Mrs. Abercrombie. “You did not hesitate before, it 
seems to me.” 

“No,” said James, “but with Miss Kinross it was dif- 
ferent. To be frank — since we are being frank — I was 
afraid that — seeing so much of him and having so much 
in common with him, she might — not knowing he was a 
German — fall in love with Ascher.” 

At this Mrs. Abercrombie, just as James had done before, 
started to her feet. 

“Fall in love with Ascher?” she exclaimed. “Really, 
James, this is too much! Are you not aware that Andy is 
engaged to a British officer — my own nephew — Archie Aber- 
crombie?” 

“Yet such things have happened before,” said James. 
“You yourself, Mrs. Abercrombie, before you knew that 
Ascher was not an Englishman, did not think it impossible. 
You know you didn’t.” 

At this Mrs. Abercrombie’s wrath, in spite of, nay, be- 
cause of certain memories of her own thoughts upon this 
matter, rose suddenly to white heat. 

“I will bandy no more words,” she exclaimed. “You 
who cannot bear your German friend to be attacked, will 
understand that neither can I listen to your vile aspersions 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 295 

on my future niece. . . . Good night. . . . You have be- 
haved in a disgraceful manner. You ought — but you won’t 
of course — you don’t seem to be able to — to be thoroughly 
ashamed of yourself. One thing, however, I have to thank 
you for before I go — you have taught me never to trust 
again to people who have no standards 1” 

With these words she swept from the room, down the 
stairs, and out into the night, leaving the front door still 
flung wide as she had found it when she came in, while Mr. 
Carruthers, having followed her out on to the landing, re- 
mained there for some minutes looking after her, a prey to 
the direst indecision. At last, however, as though making 
up his mind, he returned to the writing-room, shut the door, 
and sat down. 

“It isn’t as if I really knew anything,” he said to himself, 
“or really could tell her anything — and if I could — she 
doesn’t deserve it.” 

Mrs. Abercrombie meanwhile, before she reached Mrs. 
Binnie’s door, was remembering a hundred questions that 
she ought, of course, to have asked before leaving — about 
Ascher — about why he was like an Englishman — about his 
coming — about all sorts of things. 

Pride, however, forbade her to go back. 

“Besides,” she reminded herself, “it really is of no conse- 
quence since, according to James, we have seen the last of 
Ascher.” 

Even as the thought crossed her mind, however, she 
became aware of Mrs. Binnie standing in the doorway 
awaiting her, and something unusual in the manner of the 
old woman again gave her a sudden qualm of uneasiness. 

“Is Miss Kinross here?” she said quickly. 

“Yes, M’m,” said Old Ellen. “She must ha’ come in 
when we was over at the Dunwiddies. For she came down 
when I was clearin’ the table an’ asked me to give you this 
note when you came in, M’m.” 


296 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

“A note?” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “Has she gone to 
bed then?” 

“Yes, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie. “She said to tell you 
that she was very tired and that the note would explain 
everything an’ that she was leavin’ here to-morrow 
mornin’.” 

“Leaving?” exclaimed Mrs. Abercrombie. “To-morrow 
morning?” 

“I’ve jist been over orderin’ the spring-cart to be here 
at seven for her, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie. “I hope,” she 
added after a moment, “there’s been nothing wrong, M’m 
— nothing to make her unhappy.” 

“Certainly not, Mrs. Binnie,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
though in spite of herself her heart misgave her. “Cer- 
tainly not. Miss Kinross did not intend to stay when she 
came, and if she had been unhappy she would not have 
stayed so long.” 

“I’m glad to hear that she was pleased, M’m,” said Old 
Ellen; “but she was easy to please, she is a dear young 
lady, and I would ha’ taken it as a sign o’ bad luck cornin’ 
to the Dunwiddies if any mischancy thing had happened 
her on the night o’ their weddin’.” 

“Well as nothing has happened we needn’t talk of it 
any more, need we?” said Mrs. Abercrombie a little testily, 
for the note in her hand seemed to weigh like lead and 
burn with fire. “Good night, Mrs. Binnie,” she added as 
she turned away, “I shall need nothing more — good night.” 

“Good night, M’m,” said Mrs. Binnie, and she returned 
to her dismantling, determined, even if she should have 
to sit up half the night, not to leave any disorders for the 
morning. 

Mrs. Abercrombie’s first action on reaching the upper 
landing was to go to Andy’s bedroom door and knock at 
it. 

“She can’t be asleep you know — already,” she said to 
herself. 

There was no answer, however, and softly trying the 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 297 

handle, she found the door locked. She did not knock 
again. A sense of pique was upon her at the moment. It 
had been a shock to her confidence in and love for Andy 
to find that she had been a party to James’s concealment 
of facts. . . . Not that she blamed Andy. It had been 
James’s fault. But it had taken the bloom off the memory 
of their comradeship. . . . The day they had had in the 
wood together came back to her — Andy’s little ebullition 
at breakfast — the shrine— the walk home. Then the time 
they had had together at the Forgans’ cottage. But always 
the memory of Ascher intervened, and she fumed once 
more at the thought of having had him with them, a daily 
familiar friend. . . . 

All these reflections, however, though they have taken 
some time to write down, flashed through her mind during 
the few seconds she took to cross the landing, enter her 
sitting-room, sit down in her chair, and put on her eye- 
glasses. 

Then the letter wholly absorbed her. 

Her face, as she read it, would have been an interesting 
study for a portrait-painter, interesting but distracting, for 
it changed from moment to moment. 

Grim disapproval, deep concern, and a host of inter- 
mediate expressions merged at last into blank amazement. 

“Good God!” she ejaculated softly, unconsciously using 
Ascher ’s words. “Good God!” 

Then adjusting her pince-nez, which had fallen off, she 
began reading the letter all over again. 

“Dear Aunt Em,” it ran. “This is to tell you that I 
am going off to-morrow, and when you have read it I am 
sure that you will agree with me that this is best. My 
time here has been so wonderful — the most wonderful of all 
my life. I can only thank you, dear Aunt Em, for all 
your kindness to me, and oh, I do thank you. At the same 
time I know that you will be very angry with me when 
you have read this, and that it is best for us not to meet 


298 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

again. Otherwise we might both say things — for we are 
both quick-tempered — that neither of us could ever forget. 

“But I cannot go without telling you. Martin Ascher is 
a German. He is the German you are hunting for — the 
alien the warning from Rathness was sent about — yet I 
have come to love him as I have loved no other man on 
earth — as I did not know, Aunt Em, that it was possible 
to love. He was talking to Mr. Carruthers when you sent 
me over to bring him back, and I heard him say that 
because he was a German, he was going away without tell- 
ing me that he loved me, and I had to go out and wait 
for him on the road, I could not help it, and tell him all 
that was in my heart. ... We said good-bye then, we shall 
never meet again or hold any earthly communication ever 
more. But he is my soul’s mate, and if never in this world, 
in other heights, other worlds, we shall meet again, Aunt 
Em. I know it. . . . Meantime he has gone to be true to 
his dishonoured country, and I am going to wait and watch 
and pray for him all my life. I have written to Archie. He 
knows everything. And I hope that he may soon find some 
better girl to take my place. Do not answer this. Do not 
write to me now. I must be alone with this new begin- 
ning, with the tragedy, the pain, the mystery of life re- 
vealed to me for the first time, and making me forget 
even nationality. . . . But think as kindly as you can of 
one who loves you dearly. — Andy.” 

Here it will be necessary to describe only what Mrs. 
Abercrombie did, for what she thought is beyond descrip- 
tion. 

First she sat for a long time with folded arms gazing 
at the floor. Then, taking the letter, she tore it into little 
bits and flung it violently into the fire. Then rising, she 
went very quietly and listened for a short time intently at 
Andy’s door. Then returning, she sat down again and 
thought for another quarter of an hour. Then getting her 
writing-case she began a letter to Archie which she tore 
up. Then another and another. It was when she had 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 299 

finished one at last, and the clock had just struck the half- 
hour after ten, that Mrs. Abercrombie’s mind, settling down 
again into something like its normal state of alertness and 
acuteness, saw, for the first time, another aspect of the 
case. 

How about the hunt? How about the ring round the 
wood? The Dunwiddies, the MacKendricks, the Binnies? 
How was she to explain things? She who herself had 
brought the German to the place and introduced him as her 
friend to the chief special constable? How exonerate her- 
self from suspicion, even blame, without exposing James — 
James, on whose account she had come? Really, she re- 
flected, the predicament in which she found herself through 
the fault of James was becoming an impasse. The more 
she thought about it all, the more clearly she saw that. 

It is curious that already she was more lenient towards 
Ascher. Andy’s letter, though she had flung it in the fire, 
had had some effect. Visions came to her of the two at 
the piano together — of Ascher playing and Andy listening 
at the window in the far corner. . . . No, the more she 
thought about it all, the more clearly she saw that it was 
all James’s fault. She could see how it was. He had per- 
suaded Ascher to stay for a few days with him before pass- 
ing on, and Andy had held him — strange, beautiful Andy- 
after all it was natural — though it was irritating, aggravat- 
ing, impossible, unutterable — the very devil in fact! 

It was true, too, that it was partly her own fault, though 
not for the world would she have admitted it to James. 
Ascher had tried to tell her — twice — three times on that 
first night. 

Well, she had accepted him then as a perfect artist. 
Now, for her sins, she was to be forced to accept him as the 
supplanter of Archie, as Andy’s perfect lover. No doubt 
this was romance. She would have liked to read about it 
in a book. She would have liked Heine to havd written 
about it and Schumann to have composed it, and would 
have wept with sympathy probably, if some tenor with 


300 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

tears in his voice had sung it to her. But to experience 
it was another thing — to have your beloved nephew mixed 
up in it was another thing. When the next quarter struck 
she was pacing the room like a caged lioness. She was 
seething with resentment at James, at Andy, but most of all 
at Ascher, whose presence had been the cause of every- 
thing. Why had he come at all? Having once come, who 
knew but that he might come again and marry Andy, and 
drag her off with him to that horrible country of his. It 
was all very well to talk about other worlds — but Ger- 
mans had always been good at that sort of thing. Germans 
— here, however, she stopped pacing, and her thoughts for 
the moment stopped too, for there was a sound of voices in 
the room below — in the kitchen — Mrs. Binnie’s and a man’s 
voice. . . . The house, the woods outside, were so still 
that she could hear them quite well, though they seemed 
to be speaking in low tones. Only once Old Ellen ex- 
claimed aloud. Then the man spoke on alone uninter- 
rupted. Mrs. Abercrombie stood listening to the inarticu- 
late murmur in a fever of curiosity. Was it Ascher come 
back? She stiffened as she stood. If he had, she would 
deal with him as befitted. . . . 

But even as the thought crossed her mind, making her 
head lift, her eyes flash, and her hands clench again, she 
heard the kitchen door open, and soft heavy footsteps com- 
ing up the stairs. A moment later the door of the sitting* 
room opened, and Mrs. Binnie, her sleeves still rolled up, 
a towel still in her hand, appeared on the threshold. 

At sight of her Mrs. Abercrombie suppressed an ex- 
clamation, not because of the disorder of her dress, though 
it was unheard of for her to appear upstairs in this guise, 
but because of her face, which was set like a pale mask. 
Old Ellen looked, for the moment, like the ghost of her- 
self. 

She could not speak, though her stiff lips moved. All 
she was able to do was to beckon. 

Mrs. Abercrombie hastened forward, and in silence, like 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 301 

her guide, she descended the stairs, a cold fear upon her of 
what might be awaiting her. 

A tall man was standing by the table as they came in — 
a tall man with his back to the light, so that at first she did 
not recognise him. All she could be sure of was that it was 
not Ascher, and at this her heart gave a little throb of 
relief. Next moment, however, it thrilled painfully with 
surprise. 

“Bob Lindsay!” she exclaimed. “Why, I thought you 
were in France!” 

Old Ellen had hastily shut the door. 

“Sit doon, Bob,” she said. “Ye’ll tell it better sittin’.” 

At the same moment she placed a chair for Mrs. Aber- 
crombie. 

“Sit down yourself, Mrs. Binnie,” she said as she took it, 
“and let us hear what’s the matter.” 

She tried to speak in an ordinary voice, but Bob’s big 
silence filled her with alarm, his unexpected presence, the 
strangeness of his face, the mud plastered on his clothes, 
the thought of that day’s event. 

“I hope ye’ll excuse me, M’m,” said Old Ellen, even as 
the thought of the bride crossed Mrs. Abercrombie’s mind, 
“but an awful thing’s happened, M’m. I’m at my wits’ 
end. Bob here’s made a mistak’, an’ killed a man jbecause 
o’ Young Ellen.” 

There was a moment’s silence, while Mrs. Abercrombie 
tried in vain to take this in. 

“Killed a man?” she repeated at last. “Killed — and by 
mistake?” 

It seemed too grotesque — too horrible — till she looked up 
at Bob again. Then she realised and believed. His wild 
eyes were staring defiance, but his lips were trembling. 

“Ay, it’s hard lines,” he burst out. “They teach ye to 
kill oot there — they show ye how easy it is — they praise 
ye up for killin’. Lord bless ye, in the trenches I’ve killed 
dozens o’ men — but here I’ll ha’ to swing for killin’ one — 
an’ him the wrang man!” 


302 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

As he spoke the light came back into Mrs. Abercrombie’s 
eyes, the colour to her cheeks, the energy to her intellect, 
which last, although, as James Carruthers had said, it was 
not a very deep one, could on occasion be eminently ser- 
viceable. Thus, while Mrs. Binnie could do nothing but 
wipe the perspiration from her face and the tears from her 
eyes, Mrs. Abercrombie had grasped enough of the sit- 
uation to go on with. And on she went with it, to some 
purpose. 

“Robert,” she said, “sit down. I see your point of view, 
and I sympathise with you very sincerely. You are an 
example of what happens when young men with murderous 
instincts, which might otherwise never have come to light, 
have to be trained in the arts of war. For this you are not 
responsible. It is your misfortune, not your fault, that you 
are a murderer by nature, and have been shown, in the way 
of duty, how easy it is to kill.” 

“Eh, mercy, M’m,” here exclaimed Mrs. Binnie, “dinna 
speak like that for the love o’ God. D’ye no’ see the lad’s 
near greetin’?” 

“Be silent, Mrs. Binnie,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, as Bob, 
obeying a peremptory wave of her hand, took the chair 
indicated. “I do see that he is moved by what has hap- 
pened, and I am glad to see it. It is for this reason that 
I have spoken as I have done. He is sorry for what has 
happened. He will not do it again. This has been a 
lesson to him. And I am inclined to help him.” 

“Eh, M’m! If ye could but jist think o’ something!” 
exclaimed Mrs. Binnie. “There’s nae hairm in him. I’ve 
kent him since afore he was born. But Young Ellen’s 
ways o’ daein’ was enough to drive Job dementit, an’ what 
she’ll be noo when she hears o’ this I dinna ken.” 

Old Ellen wrung her hands. 

“Now, Mrs. Binnie,” said Mrs. Abercrombie very firmly, 
“if we are to pull this off, you must control yourself. You 
seem to forget that as yet I have heard no particulars. 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 303 

Surely it is more important that I should hear details, than 
that we should speculate upon Young Ellen’s thoughts.” 

Turning then to Bob she said — 

“First of all, Robert — tell me — why did you want to kill 
anybody?” 

“She’s told ye,” said Bob sullenly enough, yet with a 
certain eagerness too, like some wild thing in sore straits 
responding to kindly treatment. 

“Ah — Young Ellen,” said Mrs. Abercrombie softly. “I 
understand. But — this man — had she other admirers 
then?” 

“I thocht she had,” said Bob. 

“You thought she had — and this man — you — you — put 
to death,” finished Mrs. Abercrombie hastily, “was one of 
these supposed admirers?” 

“Yes.” 

“And how did you find out your mistake?” 

“Twa ways,” said Bob. “By the way he died, and by 
what Mrs. Binnie has just told me.” 

“By the way he died?” said Mrs. Abercrombie awe- 
stricken. “How did he die then?” 

“D’ye ken the path that turns into the woods half a 
mile doon the road to Wood End Station?” said Bob. “A 
broad path that leads to an open space among beech trees 
— where there’s a burn?” 

“I know it,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“Weel I was on that path no’ very long syne. I dinna 
ken what time,” said Bob, “but the moon was up — a full 
moon — I was on that path. I had been hidin’ aboot for 
days — for I dinna need to gang back to France till the 
morn — to see what was up wi’ Ellen. I never believed she 
would tak’ Dunwiddie, an’ I aye thocht there was somebody 
else — an’ I thocht I kent wha that somebody was. I was 
waitin’ aboot — when I saw her — at least I thocht it was her, 
me no’ havin’ heard onything, ye ken — an’ she was jist the 
size, an’ she had Mrs. Binnie’s black cloak on an’ the hood 
ower her head an’ near ower her face as weel. She was 


304 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

waitin’ on the road, and in a wee while he cam’ along from 
the Doo-cote way — an’ they met there — on the road.” 

He paused as though in sombre recollection, but Mrs. 
Abercrombie made no remark. She had become very pale. 
Mrs. Binnie had dried her eyes for the time being, and was 
watching her. 

“I couldna hear what they said,” Bob went on at last, 
rousing himself ; “but it made my blood boil enough withoot 
that — seein’ him holdin’ her hands, an’ her greetin’ an’ 
lookin’ up in his face. But I kept quiet an’ waited, an’ 
in a while they took my pathway.” 

“Your pathway?” said Mrs. Abercrombie almost in a 
whisper. “Do you mean the path to the — to the open 
space where the beeches are?” 

“Ay,” said Bob. “They came along slow. I had plenty 
time to get behind one o’ the big trees. I chose a good 
place to sit, for I thocht I would ha’ to wait long, for I was 
to do nothing while she was there. But it wasna long. I 
had hardly got settled, for I had got ahead too far an’ 
had to come back — when I saw her awa’ back doon the 
path an’ him sittin’ by himself on a tree-trunk that’s lyin’ 
there.” 

“I know, I know,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. 

“I waited till I was sure she was away,” Bob went on 
huskily, “then, keepin’ careful behind the trees, I made a 
roond till I had got near facin’ him — then I cam’ oot into 
the open, an’ close up to where he was.” 

He paused. 

“Go on,” said Mrs. Abercrombie sharply. 

“When I saw him, I knew I needna ha’ been sae care- 
ful,” said Bob. “He was sittin’ wi’ his face in his hands. 
He didna even see me when I cam’ near.” 

Again he paused, but this time no one spoke. 

“But,” Bob went on again, “I was determined — thinkin’ 
what I thocht, that he would ken wha killed him — and I 
stands within ten yairds an’ I says — ‘Well, sir,’ . . . jist to 
mak’ him look up.” 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 305 

As he spoke Bob looked across the room at the wall, as 
though seeing again there what had happened an hour ago. 
In a moment, however, he went on again. 

“He looks up — then stands up — an’ I aims wi’ the 
revolver an’ fires, but it was me an’ no’ him that got the 
fricht then — for he opens his airms wide — an’ laughs — an’ 
throws back his head — an’ — ‘God is good!’ says he re- 
joicin’ like, ‘God is good!’ ” 

“And — and you hit him, Bob?” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
trembling. “You did not miss?” 

“At ten yairds? no’ likely,” said Bob. 

“But I mean — you killed him — killed him dead at once?” 
she urged. 

“He never moved again,” was the reply. 

“And — and — is he lying there now?” said Mrs. Aber- 
crombie, “in the — open space where the beech trees are?” 

“Ay, I left him,” said Bob recklessly. “I didna care 
wha saw him or me — all I wan tit was to find Young Ellen, 
an’ fling in her face what she had made o’ me. I cam’ 
here ragin’ an’ foamin’ — for I was feared that things wasna 
what I had thocht someway — an’ that made me waur. I 
cam’ here,” here he laughed wildly, “to find Young Ellen, 
that I had damned mysel’ for, paired aff wi’ auld Dun- 
Widdie.” 

“Whisht — oh, whisht!” exclaimed Mrs. Binnie. 

“Are ye feared I waken the happy couple in their bed 
Over the way?” he laughed. 

“No, no,” said Mrs. Binnie breathlessly, “the young 
leddy — up the stair.” 

“Ay, I forgot,” he said. “It was her that was — in the 
wood.” 

“Whisht!” said Old Ellen again, but Mrs. Abercrombie 
had heard. 

“Mrs. Binnie,” she said at once, “if we are to keep a 
grip upon this — this calamity, it must be all three together 
or not at all. Do you understand me? I see you have a 
Bible there on the dresser. Bring it here.” 


3o6 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

A large family Bible was brought accordingly and laid on 
the table between them. 

“Place your hands upon it,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
setting the example. There was plenty of room upon the 
brown leather cover for all three hands. 

“Follow me now in this oath,” said Mrs. Abercrombie 
then. 

“I swear that as I hope to receive pardon from Al- 
mighty God for all sins done in the body, and to be there- 
after received into Heaven, that no word shall ever be writ- 
ten or spoken by me of what has been or is to be done this 
night. So help me God. — Amen.” 

The other two repeated this after her, and, as they did 
not do it distinctly the first time, she made them do it 
again. 

This over, she turned to Mrs. Binnie. 

“Now,” she said, “I am going to put on my out-door 
things, and I wish you, Mrs. Binnie, to do the same. I wish 
you also to take a clean sheet with you and some of the 
white flowers. Robert, Mrs. Binnie will tell you where you 
can find a spade.” 

Neither answered, nor moved, until she had left them 
and they could hear her quietly going up the stair. 

Then all at once Old Ellen, throwing her apron over 
her head, began sobbing silently and bitterly. 

“Ye’d better stop that,” said Bob roughly, “an’ tell me 
where the spade is. Stop it,” he said again, “it’s for your 
sake as weel as mine I’m speakin’.” 

“I ken, I ken,” said Old Ellen, removing her apron again 
and recovering herself by a supreme effort. “But she’s an 
awful woman.” 

“She is that,” said Bob; “and it’s jist as weel for us that 
she is,” he added. 

When Mrs. Abercrombie came downstairs again she 
found the two standing waiting for her in the kitchen, with 
all that she had required. They were talking together in 
whispers as she came in, and at once Mrs. Binnie spoke. 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 307 

“Mrs. Abercrombie, M’m, afore we start,” she said, 
“there’s jist one thing I would like to ken. The gentle- 
man that’s — dead — was my lodger. What’ll happen to me 
if there’s ony inquiry aboot him?” 

“There will be no inquiry,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, 
“and if there is, we have two witnesses to prove that he 
left Wood End of his own accord to go on a long jour- 
ney.” 

“Two witnesses?” repeated Mrs. Binnie blankly. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Abercrombie, “Mr. Carruthers and 
Miss Kinross. Mr. Carruthers will be informing you in 
the morning of the fact, that his friend had to leave unex- 
pectedly. Miss Kinross told me the same in her letter. 
There will be no difficulty in that respect. Now let us go 
forward.” 

••••••• 

No word was spoken again between them. But for the 
sound of their footsteps they might have been three ghosts 
walking down the road together. When they left the road 
at last and turned into the path even the sound of their 
footsteps ceased, and it was in a silence, broken only by 
Mrs. Binnie’s heavy breathing, that they at last arrived at 
their destination. 

Ascher was lying where he had fallen, on the mossy 
ground near the tree-trunk where he had been sitting. One 
arm was flung back over his head as though in triumph, 
or in greeting to the Great Deliverer. 

Mrs. Abercrombie had not expected to see him so youth-? 
ful and happy-looking. In the moonlight the streaks of 
grey in his fair hair were not seen — his eyes were closed as 
though in ecstasy — a smile of rapture was on his lips. . . . 

She turned away. 

“Go on,” she said sharply to Bob, who stood awaiting her 
orders. “Back there — among the beech trees — where the 
ground is soft.” 

“Yes, M’m,” he said. 

Then a long time passed. Mrs. Abercrombie sat down, 


308 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

while Mrs. Binnie, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, 
did the part she had come to do. From time to time she 
looked over to where Mrs. Abercrombie, with one hand 
shading her eyes, sat aloof on the tree-trunk. 

Once she went over to her. 

‘There’s money on him,” she said — “a pocket-book.” 

“Bring it to me,” said Mrs. Abercrombie. “I will see to 
it.” 

“She’s an awful woman,” said Mrs. Binnie to herself 
once more. 

When she had finished her task she went over again to 
the stolid figure. 

“Would ye no’ like to see him?” she said. 

There was wonder as well as reproach in her voice. 

“I suppose I must,” said Mrs. Abercrombie to herself. 

“Very well,” she said aloud, and she rose and came over 
to where Ascher lay, robed all in white and on his breast 
the flowers from the wedding feast that had seen him full 
of passionate life only a few hours before, yet had survived 
him. 

The smile was still on his lips, his hair had been smoothed 
back. 

“Eh — he’s bonny — he’s bonny,” said Mrs. Binnie with 
a sob. 

“Ask Robert if he is nearly ready,” was all Mrs. Aber- 
crombie answered. 

But Bob was some distance off, and when Mrs. Binnie 
was well on her way to him — down dropped Mrs. Abercrom- 
bie on her knees. 

Then, bursting into a storm of tears, she tenderly kissed 
the cold forehead. 

“Poor boy, poor boy,” she whispered. 

But Mrs. Binnie, returning, found her seated once more 
on her tree-trunk. 

• •••••• 

Thinking it all over afterwards quietly in her kitchen, 
when Bob had been to France and back again and become 


MRS. ABERCROMBIE UP AGAINST IT 309 

engaged to another woman, Mrs. Binnie concluded that the 
most awesome thing about that awesome funeral was the 
heathen sermon at it. 

It had been delivered after all was over by Mrs. Aber- 
crombie standing at the head of the grave, and, being 
carried away as usual by the words, she had declaimed it 
after the first line or two in a voice which seemed to Mrs. 
Binnie too audible. Therefore, what with not understand- 
ing the half of it and being in terror of it being overheard 
by some passer-by as well, it had totally escaped Mrs. 
Binnie’s memory, and she could not even think what it had 
been about. All she knew was that it had been in rhyme, 
and she supposed Mrs. Abercrombie had made it up, but 
whether it had been extempore or not she could never be 
quite certain. \ 

The reader shall judge. What Mrs. Abercrombie had 
said was — 

Peace. peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep — 

He hath awaken’d from the dream of life — 

’Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep 
With phantoms an unprofitable strife, 

And in mad trance strike with our spirit’s knife 
Invulnerable nothings — We decay 
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief 
Convulse us and consume us day by day, 

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. 

He has outsoar’d the sh. dow of our night ; 

Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 

And that unrest which men miscall delight, 

Can touch him not and torture not again; 

From the contagion of the world’s slow stain 
He is secure and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; 

Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn, 

With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. . . . 

The inheritors of unfulfill’d renown 

Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, 

Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton 
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
Yet faded from him; Sydney as he fought 


310 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

And as he fell, and as he lived and loved, 
Sublimely mild, a spirit without spot, 

Arose ; and Lucian, by his death approved : 
Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 

And many more, whose names on earth are dark. 
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die 
So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 

Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 

“Thou art become as one of us,” they cry. . . . 


POSTSCRIPTS 


I. Note from Mrs. Abercrombie to Mr. James 
Carruthers 

“The Dove-cote, South, 
“November ist, 1918. 

“Dear James, — I am sorry not to see you before I leave, 
but our last meeting was so painful that I feel you may not 
care to repeat the experience. I hope, however, that you 
will do an old friend the favour of accepting the enclosed 
cheque for fifty pounds. 

“If I might suggest, I think a journey to Crete would be 
an immense help to the Investigation. But even if you do 
not agree with me, surely those big books you read must 
cost a great deal. Anyhow, if you need neither travelling 
exes or books, you do need another chair. — Yours very 
sincerely, Emmeline D’Orsay Abercrombie.” 


II. Letter from Miss Carruthers to her 
brother James 


“The Rathe, 

“Rathness, November 3rd, 1918. 


“Dear James, — You will be surprised to hear that Big 
Janet died last night of influenza after three days’ illness, 
during which she never spoke one word. Wasn’t that like 
her? 

“It has been an awful time, and I am quite worn out. 
My one comfort is that you are happy. I am sure the 


311 


312 THE MAN WITH THE LAMP 

Investigation must be getting on well now that you have 
had no interruptions. 

“Mrs. Abercrombie, who, like the good soul she is, came 
in to see me last night, told me that, when last she saw 
you, you were more vigorous in your manner than she had 
ever seen you. This is more than I can say of her. Even 
after her long rest she looks more fatigued than the short 
railway journey would account for. She called a meeting, 
nevertheless, the day after she arrived, of the Rathness 
Branch of the British Empire League, and, I am told, she 
made another extraordinary speech at it, exhorting us all to 
stand out to the last for the utter destruction of the Ger- 
man Government, and especially of the Hohenzollems, man, 
woman, and child, from the Kaiser himself down to his 
youngest grandchild, not only because of the harm they 
had done to us and to other nations, but most of all because 
of the evil they had wrought upon their own accursed 
people. 

“Every one is talking about it, and wondering what she 
meant exactly. For my part, I am inclined to think that 
— poor dear — she is breaking up. 

“But now that the war is so nearly over, what a comfort 
it is to know that soon we shall all have peace to break up 
at our leisure.” 

III. Entry by Mr. James Carruthers in his Day-book 
for November 4x11, 1918 

“I am now practically certain of it. I have been con- 
scious for days of an inexplicable relief — a strange light- 
ness and sense of peace. . . . Also to-day I received a 
cheque for fifty pounds — fifty pounds — the very sum I had 
given him away with him. It must have been a sugges- 
tion — strange thought — from the other side. And to-night 
I have had a Memory, for the first time for weeks . . . 
faint but unmistakable. 

“At the same time my mind somehow seemed to be 


POSTSCRIPTS 313 

steadied — prepared — indifferent, as never before, to all 
earthly interruptions. 

“He is free. ... He is helping me, from where there is 
naught hid, from beyond life and death, from some van- 
tage-ground of Eternity.” 



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